Mothers watch with weary, wary, tired eyes

from doorways and corners on every continent of this godforsaken world.


Stepping on cracks did, in fact, break their backs

but they bite their withered tongues and train their skin to shield the pain.


They watch their children

and the men they’ve become,


and they see girls weathering their withering tongues:

training them to speak in rhymes and riddles

and to speak no ill,


and they see girls growing thick their skins

ridding them of the ghosts of hairy hands

and men hunting them for the thrill.


The daughters get buried alive

in guilt and unheard rage and the weight of blood-ripped skin.


This pain wears and wars their tired eyes,

and as mothers of unwanted kin they cloak their eyes in shadow,

backs breaking from within.


The power to bring change lies within our reach,
Nestled deep inside the circuitry we hold between our fingers;
It is now so easy to push the right buttons to rile up society.

The real issues rarely make the cover,
But the adverts, in lying bare exactly what the public wants,
Can be used to illustrate the dehumanisation of our age;
Where girls are given worth according to the length of wires
Wound around their chest,
And boys are given guns with no questions asked.

Media brings about knowledge.
Knowledge brings about change.
But for now, people still sit around cracking rape jokes
On the bus, thinking poverty’s the only way
To keep the unworthy in their place.

And so the boys with guns join forces,
And the girls with stick-thin legs grow tired of starvation;
Both take hold of their mobile devices
And promise to make
The power of the media is at their disposal,
And they throw it all to waste.
So the girls and the boys of today
Both end up chocking up blood-soaked vomit
And whimper the through the pain.

By then, the thought of change disgusts them
Even more that their own skins,
And like that you’ve lost a spark;
Like that you’ve let them win.