Her Body is Not a Battleground

By Breckyn Forcey

They’ve turned our bodies
into battlegrounds
and called it freedom.

But freedom does not look like
a courtroom full of men
arguing over a uterus
like it’s a zoning dispute.

Freedom does not sound like
"She was asking for it"
echoing down
a hallway that smells like bleach
and silence.

I was thirteen
when I learned that no
doesn’t always
mean safe.

I was fifteen
when I realized
they don’t teach boys
to take responsibility
they teach girls
to shrink.

To cross their legs,
lower their gaze,
and carry pepper spray
like a purse essential.

They tell us
to “respect ourselves”
but build systems
that don’t respect us back.

Tell us
we’re too emotional
to lead,
then legislate
based on fear.

Tell us
"motherhood is sacred"
while cutting funding
for every single thing
that would make it survivable.

Tell us
"your body, your choice"
until they decide
it isn’t.

They write laws
in ink that burns.
They hold our autonomy
like a leash
and call it morality.

But morality
without consent
is just control
in a church dress.

This is not about babies.
This is about power.
Because if it were about babies,
we’d have free formula,
universal healthcare,
paid leave,
and childcare centers
in every zip code.

But we don’t.
What we have
is a Supreme Court
that looks more like
a frat reunion
than a justice system.

What we have
is women bleeding out
in parking lots
while protestors scream prayers
at their corpses.

What we have
is the shame
stitched into every waistband
of a teenage girl’s jeans
when the dress code
tells her
her body is a weapon.

But we are not weapons.
We are survivors
of a war we never enlisted in.

And still
we rise.

We rise
in marches that stretch
longer than the roads
they said we couldn’t walk.

We rise
with coat hangers raised,
not out of nostalgia,
but rage.
Because we remember
what it was like
when choice
was only for the rich
and everyone else
bled in secret.

We rise
in courtrooms,
in classrooms,
in voting booths
and clinic waiting rooms
where courage
sits quietly in chairs
and waits
to be called.

We rise
with tired hands
that cradle the next generation
and promise them
something better.

We rise
because our ancestors
couldn’t
and our daughters
must.

We rise
not because we are fearless,
but because we are fed up.

Because we have buried
too many sisters
under too many headlines
that read
“Found dead”
when they should’ve said
“Failed by the system.”

Because we are done
asking nicely
for rights
that should never have been
up for discussion.

This is not a trend.
This is not a phase.
This is not
a moment
you can ignore
until the news cycle resets.

This
is a movement.

A reckoning
written in lipstick and protest ink.
In lullabies rewritten
as war chants.

And if they are scared

 good.

They should be.

Because we are not
leaving quietly.
We are not
waiting politely.
We are not
going back.

We are
the daughters
of witches
you couldn’t burn
and women
you tried to silence
but only made louder.

We are
the scream in the system.
The choice
that will not be revoked.
The body
that will not be owned.

We are not asking.

We are becoming.

And we
are not done
rising.