The Feminine Fever

By Vanshika

She was never born to be delicate,

she was born to be complete—

a storm with a heartbeat,

a whisper that could shatter mountains.

They called her "delicate,"

but her bones bore legacies,

her eyes contained revolutions

before her tongue knew words.

Feminism is not flames—it's light;

not anger—it's memory

It's the echo of each silenced voice

breaking back into song.

It's the mother showing her daughter

that "no" is not revolution—

it's grammar for survival.

It's the girl who walks home in the evening

and will not shorten her stride

to make the world a safe place.

It's the man who listens

without grasping defence,

the boy who learns that power

is not louder than compassion.

Feminism is not a crown;

it's the return of breath—

it's the universe breathing

after centuries of keeping itself small.

And she—

she is not a symbol,

nor a cause,

nor an idea.

She is the earth remembering its own rhythm,

the scar that would not heal,

the tale that taught

itself to tell itself back.

By Vanshika