s t o p
my body is not your plaything.
it cannot be experimented upon—
one “oh-so-innocent” touch leaves a girl shocked
i can feel the after-gooseflesh and
ghost fingers and I feel
no matter how many times i run my hands under the tap,
or douse myself with peach-scented body wash
and the eyes stare cautiously; always
please do not touch me because
if a girl breaks,
no amount of money will be able to buy her back;
pay the debt
a person is worth more than dollars.
you cannot put a price on their smile as they accept their first kiss,
as their baby niece’s sigh brings tears to their eyes
no amount of pounds or rupees could even measure their wonder
as they gaze up at a starry sky…
and their wanderlust, their mountain-trekking-hunger
when thunder creaks their bones and makes their hair stand on end
we don’t have price tags dangling on our necks like twisted jewellery for a reason:
bringing chicken soup to all the homeless,
sending a teddy bear across a country to console a child:
now, who can put a number on humanity?
our hearts are too big and too full.
The world is so big—I want to be a big person among humans. I want to be remembered by the people living on a billion-year-old star. I want to be acknowledged by the wise, rocky Earth. I want to leave a mark on an unchangeable landscape. I want to live on.