Man or Bear

By Anshul Purvia

If I have a little girl someday,

how will I tell her it’s not okay

that the world she’s born into isn’t fair,

that she’s safer out there with a bear?

Because a bear doesn’t smile first,

doesn’t buy her drinks or rehearse.

It doesn’t lie, or beg, or plead

it kills for hunger, not for greed.

But men? They smile and earn her trust,

then tear her down to feed their lust.

They call it love, they call it need,

then watch her bleed, then watch her bleed.

She’ll learn that “no” means nothing still,

that silence screams where pain can’t spill.

That after ruin, she must stand,

while he walks free, with clean, dry hands.

They’ll ask her why she didn’t fight,

why she was out that late at night.

They’ll ask her what she chose to wear

as if fabric makes her less aware.

She’ll carry fear in her every bone,

never feel safe when she’s alone.

Lock the doors, check twice, beware

'cause men are worse than beasts out there.

If I have a girl, I’ll tell her straight:

the world won’t guard, it will violate.

It will stare, it will touch, it will tear

and no one will really care.

I’ll teach her anger, not to please,

to spit back shame, not fall to knees.

To scream if touched, to never bear

and know she’s safer with a bear.

’Cause a bear kills once and walks away,

but men—they kill in every way.

They steal her breath, her trust, her skin,

then call her broken from within.

So if I have a little girl someday,

I’ll hold her close and softly say

“Don’t trust the smile, don’t trust the state.

You’re not safe with man

you’re safe with bear.”

By Anshul Purvia