The Perfect Girl

You’ll see her with a glass of whiskey at the bar

In a black dress and, red lips.

You’ll find her drenched in sweat,

Walking out of the gym at seven the next morning.

She drapes a saree perfectly, you’ll praise

But then you’ll measure her integrity

Inversely on the distance between her knees

And the hemline of her miniskirt.

She leads meetings and projects;

Earns awards and, promotions,

But you’ll gossip about

How she works with four men;

About how her hardwork is not in her cabin

But in her boss’ bedroom.

You’d cringe your nose if you knew

She could puff out perfect rings of smoke,

And while your son reeked of tobacco,

You called it occasional stress.

You’ll ask her if she’ll still work after marriage

Expecting a negative

While you won’t ask the same

To the man she weds.

You see, she could be all of these

Or neither.

But you like to give her labels;

You like to massage the scalps of young girls

With a list of do’s and don’ts,

Painting an image of the perfect girl

On the canvases of their body,

That warms your spineless ego,

From corsets and,

Veils hiding her opinions,

Voices hushing her thoughts,

To taunts restricting her strength,

And ideologies magnifying her oppression.

But you see, she’s perfect

In ways as unique as her fingerprint.

And while you preach your myth,

She chastises her perfection

With her soul

That is solely written

By her.

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