Poetry

The Blood Ballad by Lucy Whalen | International Women’s Day Celebration

I once knew a young girl,

Who bled, like all others,

At 12 her path unfurled,

Branded: mark of mothers.

 

The future not her choice,

Never hers to control:

 

No woman gets a voice –

Red rivers drown them whole.

 

Red tags in shop windows,

Rounded mannequins smile,

For their blood they are sold,

And walked down the aisle.

 

Yet-

 

There was no thunder strike,

No demonic fanfare,

When, too soon, the river dried,

And the mark wasn’t there.

 

She still begged forgiveness,

She still hoped to be saved,

No relief in resistance,

By then it was too late…

 

Eyes, watching, they whisper-

“Stupid. Worthless. Whore”,

But these mouths, so bitter,

Said it’s what she was made for,

 

Dolls they made her cradle,

Before the blood began,

Household stains: her label;

Part of the age-old plan…

 

Lined with disappointment,

Her Father’s judging face-

 

Her female anointment,

Marred by an unchanged name.


 

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