Every second one of her rights is violated.
Every moment I feel more pressure,
more pressured to exist.
To (re)exist.
Because I don't exist the way I want to,
I exist the way I was taught to.
Each day I confront the beast,
I pass it on the street and hear "hot."
Heavy, right?
Heavier than this only the weight on the backs of those who are silent.
I don't speak for me,
I speak for us,
Marielle, Klara Castanho, Ketlhen…
I speak for many who were silenced.
I scream for help,
But they insist on not hearing me.
The system is afraid vagina.
Is grossed out by blood,
Unless it is spilt by police gunfire,
Or in the abusive act of a boyfriend.
Every day,
I say everyday,
She is violated
Molested
Assassinated
Everyday a mother is left without a daughter,
and a daughter is left without a mother.
Not all men, but every woman.
It's like that
My indignation is such it can hardly fit into a poem
Where is my hope?
It is hard to find.
It had to be with your respect.
In the midst of this chaos of great incidence,
I leave my open letter to women.
Congratulations on your patience.
I am sixteen years old and in the 11th grade at Edem High School in Rio de Janeiro. I write to express myself, to impose sentiments, whether they are positive or negative. To explain why I wrote this text: I understand art as being closely related to political questions, and I, as a Carioca in today's world, being indignant with the government has become routine. And if we can not expose all of these wrongs to human rights this will continue to be absolved.
I write so as not to explode, I write to take note of all of the absurdities. I write so they are not forgotten. Every form of writing is valid, I also identify with drawing and theater. Image created by author.
