Audacity by the Kilo

Where do men get their audacity from? Is it sold in the same marketplace where women are awarded their guilt and shame? Where do men get their audacity from—to touch, to grope, to snatch, to force, to act as if I belong to him? Where are men taught to take what is not theirs? Where are men being taught to live on their lives after ruining mine (and hers, so many hers.) Where the fuck do men get the audacity to act like they own the world from? To act like I am theirs for the taking, to act as if my no is only an attempt at flirtation, that my pushing him back is actually so he can pull me back in? Take me to the place where men get their audacity from because then I will know exactly what to burn. I will scorch the place to its very ground, leaving only rubbles, so that men don’t have this audacity anymore. Why is my naked body such a turn-on to you? Why is my covered body such a turn-on to you? Why am I such a turn-on to you? Did men forget to evolve from animals, did they get stuck at some step of evolution and forget to put another foot forward? Did they do it deliberately? Do they touch knowing that the no uttered is not out of coyness but actual desperation to save myself from his audacity? Why do men not know when to stop? Why do men act like they own the fucking world and they own everything in it, including me?

 

No, you don’t. You don’t own me. You can’t. Your audacity stops at me. I stop your audacity. Your audacity runs scared in my face, because this, this is not a woman of guilt and shame, but she’s made of absolute, all-consuming rage. Your audacity stops here because your audacity had been bought from the market but my rage has been planted and nurtured by me for years—nurtured through the catcalls, and the touches, and the undressing done in plain sight, and the patriarchal bargaining the women around did just to give us pretense of “safety” in a world that sells your audacity a kilo for a rupee. My rage eats up your audacity and spits it back in your face because your hand wasn’t supposed to touch me, wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near me, wasn’t supposed to pull me in again and again and again.

 

“I am a man,” you protest with confidence. You are. You are a man. That is why I can buy your audacity a kilo for an anna and I can cut it into pieces just to sew it back into your skin. Your skin should know how it feels to remember unsolicited touch. Your skin should know how it feels to carry the pain, how it feels to calculate seven years from the day just so I can pretend to have forgotten how your skin burnt upon mine, how it feels to pacify yourself that time fades all scars away. You are a man, yes, but I think that’s the biggest insult to you I can make. Your audacity will burn and so will you as the flames eat you away. Will your screaming “no” mean anything then? Will your running away mean anything then? Will your begging mean anything then? No. But you don’t understand the word so you will be in wait till it happens and when it happens you will know. So, wait for when the world burns up. Wait for when the rage takes over. Wait for when you go to buy your audacity and the marketplace is in flames. Wait for when you say no and no one understands as the flames cut off your air and death closes in. So, wait.