The Art of Being a Woman

By Aarna Sandilya

Born to die a little each day,

Punished for the body she carries,

For a womb that births galaxies,

Yet is branded weakness.

“Be strong, don’t complain,” they say.

Pain is rebranded as personality.

So she learns to swallow storms,

And walk with silence on bleeding feet,

Hiding battles no one cares to see.

At every step,

She must prove her worth,

Prove she is not fragile,

Prove she deserves to be called human.

She works harder than men,

Yet chains rattle at her ankles.

Every effort questioned,

Every failure cursed upon her name.

Expected to love all,

But never truly loved by anyone.

If she speaks, she’s dramatic.

If she stays quiet, she’s weak.

If she dreams, she’s selfish.

If she bends, she’s fake.

Fat, skinny, flawless, flawed—

Every version is condemned.

When dishonored by another’s sin,

It is she who wears the blame.

Her silence becomes her prison,

Her dignity, a headline to forget.

Still—

She rises each dawn,

Carrying worlds upon her shoulders,

Bleeding, breaking, yet building.

And when at last,

Her weary soul escapes the cage,

She finds freedom in death—

A cruel gift from God

For a lifetime of struggle.

Yet even then,

Her echo whispers:

She was never weak.

She was fire disguised as flesh,

A storm mistaken for a shadow,

The art of survival

Carved into the name—

Woman.

By Aarna Sandilya