May 7, 2018

It was never about clothes; I simply never had your respect.
I would drape the heaviest, most sacred of fabrics around my person, and you will still find ways to make me seem unclean.

If I show some skin, I am asking for it;
to be touched intimately by the hands of filthy men.
If I cover up then I am a tease,
coyly baiting them with the fleeting scents I wear.

If you hold me in high esteem simply because you have yet to touch me, you must think very little of yourself.
If you find me unclean because my skin recalls the touch of your kin, you must think your own blood brothers very vile.
And if I become unclean only after you touch me then know this: you are the one with dirty hands.

My body is no temple.
I am not a place men visit when they seek something divine; I am divinity itself.
You do not enter me; I enter you.

And I enter only that which I wish.

I am no flower either;
to be plucked and sniffed, and kept constantly watered in a vase till I wither and go back to dirt.

I am the very earth on which a million flowers bloom.

Your reduction of my essence into something less than it truly is, is not at all an insult on my person. It is a handicap on yours.


Photography by Kennedy Gitau

Made of Sand
Not Dura, but Alaminadura

    Leave a Reply

    This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.