“It’s just my choice,” said the feminist, As she pays out of her own pocket for her husband’s thick-crust pizza, That she was never hungry for. As she takes longing glances at the thin-crusts nearby, Reprimanding her own selfish desires— for her family mattered more than her life therebefore.
“It’s my own choice,” said the feminist,
Packing her kids’ lunchboxes as her husband watches the game.
She asks her daughter for help, chastising her for adding more spices than her son can bear,
And massages his fingers that must be exhausted from pushing buttons on his video game— the only thing that calmed him down and kept him tame.
“I did it for myself,” murmured the feminist,
Unable to move her newly filled lips,
That the man she loved still did not kiss
With the same hungry passion that he undid his mistress’s buttons and pushed every last one of hers,
But every time her friends noticed that something was amiss, she silenced them with a laugh and assured them that being married to him was bliss.
“I like wearing it,” snapped the feminist,
Tugging at the ends of her hijab.
Her sister was murdered for taking it off, but that’s just the price you pay.
Her friend shifts uncomfortably in the new saree her husband got her, the one she claimed to love.
They made their own bed, lay in it by choice. For if they refused, what would people say?
“I chose to stay,” wept the feminist,
Frantically covering her fresh bruise with makeup.
She lay silently in bed, unmoving but alluring, as he continued to remove her clothes.
She trained her mind to receive it as pleasure, yet breathed a sigh of relief when it was finally over.
Like any loyal wife, she stayed for him. She paid for him. She cried for him.
Like every desperate wife, she continues to choose him.
And like every loving wife, she died for him.
For the ‘tale as old as time’ failed to mention— The Beast killed her when she was no longer a Beauty. And as certain as the setting sun, she would never face reality.
A/N: This poem was not meant to disrespect housewives, hijabis, women who wear sarees, women who wear makeup, women who get plastic surgeries, or married women. It is meant to shed light on what is often confused with ‘choice feminism’. You can absolutely be a traditional woman; you do not need to be ‘liberated’ by white feminism if it does not bring you joy. But the reason you do what you do matters. Are you making that choice out of free will or conditioning? Are you choosing to cook for your husband because you like cooking or because he expects it? Are you waiting till marriage because you believe sex is something intimate enough to only share with your husband, or because your future mother-in-law will freak out if the white sheets don't turn red on the wedding night? Do you only have female friends because you just get along better with women, or because your boyfriend is jealous of other men? Just some food for thought here!
