You come here to play and hurt.
But I have to bear your stares
and all the things that you do to safeguard the false masculine honour that you have created for yourself,
to taint the false feminine honour that you have painted for me.
You hate it. You hate it when I jump and run.
As if it isn’t the ground but your being that I’m stepping on and trampling.
I play with the inflated ball of your ego, it seems,
because tennis balls aren’t meant to hurt “strong boys” like you-
are they, now?
How I wish your ogling, hooting existence would diminish just as you aim to do to mine!
Though the thorns that you have strewn in my way, make my feet bleed;
with my blood-soaked feet,
I will keep walking ahead.
And I will stain your perfect pavements,
the centres of your mafia of oglers.
My bloody foot-prints will tell the story of my struggle and your cruelty.
My story is your stain, not mine.
I will not cower in shame.
I will gather
all the hurt caused by your cat-calling, gawping existence,
encase it in stones that I will throw at you
with the same hands which you called weak,
as I stood alone and unarmed in the arena,
while you hid within your palace of privilege, along with your herd of gangsters.
Hunh. And you call me fragile?
Your fragile, smirking, irking being
can bring me no shame.
Hidden behind windshields, zooming past me in cars, you honk your filthy horns.
But my honour thrives as I walk across the malicious path of thorns.
Above all, remember:
You have already lost.
I am destined to win.
is where I begin.