We are told:
carry your keys like claws in your fist,
a lioness armed with silver teeth,
a silent shadow ready for war.
Walk fast, head high,
never too much skin at night.
Text when you’re home,
share your location,
don’t take the shortcut.
Don’t smile.
Wear shoes you can run in,
lips you can bite shut.
Swallow the rage like it’s yours to keep—
because it is, they say.
And in the quiet of these rules,
there is no whisper to them:
don’t follow her,
don’t leer at her,
don’t cage her with your words.
They don’t hear,
don’t teach,
don’t change.
We stitch safety into our bones,
lace vigilance through every day,
while they walk free,
bare of burden,
their laughter unchecked.
But the truth is loud:
this world belongs to us too,
not just the corners and cracks
we carve into hiding places.
Teach them what we carry.
Teach them the weight of our keys.
Let them know how it feels—
to walk into a world
that isn’t a warning,
but a welcome.
JH
Julan62 