Jane Austen to the Rescue

I’ve been called so many names in my life.

I guess every woman could sing that song.

It always hurts more when insults come from a woman.

It feels like betrayal concerning matters where we should stick together.


She called her a whore (what else?) for doing something (yes, sex) openly

Unlike her who did it in secret pretending that it’s more than that,

Yes, a relationship, dating, or whatever, that made her a saint, you know,

Because we’re always categorised, otherwise people might lose their shit.


Oh, she wanted her to wait for two months, then it would be remotely socially

Acceptable to have sex, no, not now, that both parties know already where it’s headed.

Who made all these ridiculous rules?


She cancelled the friendship, because everybody

Is talking, calling her names and, yes, she agrees too, she cannot be friends with her

Anymore even though she went all the way with her in the room, but oh wait,

That was in a re-la-tion-ship, okay? That ended after a few weeks, because, why?

Oh, yes it was only sex with a halo and a social stamp of approval.


Oh, these hideous teenage double standards and moral apostle hypocrisy plays.

No wonder she started doing everything in secrecy, in hiding, being taught

That she was rotten, immoral, devious, shameless and dirty. And, one by one, she

Was treated that way, starting to feel these things one by one, accepting them into her

Body, the wounds inflicted by mothers and fathers, silly, judgemental and jealous girls

And abusive, reputation-hungry, useless boys.


She had everybody’s disapproval

And not once did they take responsibility for her force-fed actions, driving her into the

Shadows, out of sight, not out of mind, she still was their business apparently.


And as they started to experience their own sexuality, rules changed, but the stamp

On her forehead always remained, branded onto her body, her self-esteem, they

Stole it and shredded it, leaving her in pieces, nobody came to her rescue,

She had been declared worthless by a worthless mob that she regarded as the grand jury of self-righteousness.


It had been the same old song that she absorbed as a young girl.

It came back to haunt her, claim her, when boys assembled around her,

And girls whispered behind her, whore from the female corner, a text message

From the male side. Is that how things go?


She’d always be alone, no matter what.


There are many types of attention and not all of them are wholesome.

She’d sit in solitude, in her damaged body, asking herself what was wrong with her,

Why she had been selected, what did she do so differently? Why was sex something

Unnatural with her, in her? They’d pull her limbs, shouting, finger-pointing,

Scapegoating, exploiting and excommunicating her, and she started to adopt

The very same mechanisms and behaviour, punishing herself before others could,

Destroying herself and there’d be nothing left for others to tackle.


And you know what? I’m done apologising,

Running after you like a beaten dog,

I’d rather take a dump on your lawn.

I’m done justifying my actions, begging for your

Broken friendship (you did me a favour actually) or your

Forgiveness. I did what I did, the way I did it and that is none

Of your business. It never has been. And you can judge me all you want

All day long, I hope you find some pleasure in it until you’re old

And grey.

I’d rather live with all my shades than with your emptiness.

It’s easy to piss on those living their lives from your stagnant cowardly balcony

Of self-repression, shallowness and narrow-mindedness where nothing ever happens.

woman in black suit leaning on rusty metal barrel
Photo by Ichad Windhiagiri on Pexels.com




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