The bruised breasts

Of budding young girls.

Seen for their gaps

Before their bodies 

Grow hair.

Criminalised.

For not wearing a t-shirt

Over nine.

Protected before breath.

Still in touch with the Divine.

 

It's easy to defend a foetus.

A concept.

An idea.

That hypothetical bean

Inside of people like me.

Before it knows to fear,

Answers back,

Has needs

Or goes hungry.

 

A cluster of cells is a bullet

In the hands of the patriarchy.

 

Decided by those who miss screams

Unhurled.

Screams untold.

Everyone loves babies

Before they get too old.

Everybody loves the idea.

A blank space, so easy

To mould.

Stick jam encrusted fingers

In your hair and take hold.

Sleepless nights, sleepless fights.

Certain bodies under attack

For hypothetical rights.

 

It's easy to love a foetus.

Easy to love something 

Not. Quite. Yet.

Not Less Than,

Not Hairy,

Not Fat

Not Yet,

Not Gay, Bi, Trans,

Not Brown or Black,

Dyslexic, Dyscalculaic,

Not Yet.

Not physically different

In spine or limbs.

Not needy,

Not yet. 

Not me.

 

Not when that foetus grows up.

Has enough of your shitty sex ed.

Makes a mistake, is careless or lazy.

Has a mental health crisis 

From this sick society,

On a dying planet 

You Created.

These are the cells that you seed!

 

And it ends up standing in front of you.

Begging to be seen.

A fully formed adult human being.

Begging for their body to be enough

In this hypothetical hypocrisy.

 

A clump of cells is a bullet

In the hands of the patriarchy.

 

Original Photography by Grace

A cluster of cells is a bullet

In the hands of the patriarchy.

Original Art by Grace