The Frail Woman by Vaishnavi Kolluru (16, California)

Trigger Warning: Mentions of rape, violence, objectification of women. 
I hope for the flowers of my language to intrigue the Reader enough for this piece to warrant publication, for I offer no unfamiliar thoughts: only reminders. I surmise that, upon consuming my chronicle, the Reader will remember that She had identified Herself in it once; amendments will abound. I see no medium for this other than through publication; a voice unheard is rendered voiceless. So begins the Tale of the Ideal Woman.
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The Ideal Woman flaunts her brawn. O look, how her hips sway as she bears the load of pots and pans! admire her behind as she makes an immaculate home! wallow in her soft skin, unruffled by labor! She incites “why can’t you?” She hangs upon Blessings bestowed. The Ideal Woman emerges triumphant. hit, kicked, slapped, abused, ruined, violated, but Pure; Holy, without as much as a blemish on her fair white skin. Born an Angel, taken an Angel. An honorable passing, yes indeed. She hangs upon Esteem endowed. The Ideal Woman speaks her mind. With her lady-friends, her woman-neighbor, her girl-child. With her husband she remains dumb; so too with her man-neighbor, her boy-child. Of course. They would not have it any other way. She hangs upon Gifts given. The Ideal Woman earns for herself. She toils in the fields, or in the factory, or in the office. She pans for her ration. She toils at home for her master. She is granted safety, for two jobs well done; an independent, self-made woman. She hangs upon Generosity granted. The Ideal Woman has strong bones. Too strong to break, but too weak to heal. Weak enough to collapse into an amorphous pile of soil. She still sprouts life, but for whom? Her broken foundations yield fruit. but for whom? She hangs upon Approval awarded. The Ideal Woman bleeds silently. But those who hear have no voice; those who speak have no ears. Thus to the important folks of the world she is silent. unsuffering. the Frail Woman rolls up her pad, wraps it in a plastic bag and shoves it away to hide the struggle that defines her. She hangs upon Rewards received.
The Frail Woman is a beggar clutching to her eternal hope for escape. But inaction on desire yields no fulfillment; thus she remains on the streets:
panning, panning, panting...
for a portion of pride,
a ration of respect, a drop of dignity.
panning, panning, panting... 
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I am not of the era of women who struggle between “tradition” and progression; as such, I write for those trapped in the past. I have seen what others have lived. I write about that I have seen. I have seen You, and You know it.