Your Toy by  Calista Titus

Am I a servant? No, I can’t be. Maybe a slave, then? Or am I even less? Just an object? Is that how you see me? As something you can break, discard, and replace? Because that’s what you taught me to be, isn’t it? You taught me what it meant to be a woman from the moment I was born. Taught me to sit still, look pretty, never question, and never resist.

You taught me my body wasn’t mine, it was a toy for your desires. I was told to cover up, but not too much. To be desirable, but never assertive. To speak, but only when spoken to, and always to please you. You made sure I knew my worth was in my compliance.

My whole life, I’ve tolerated hands I didn’t welcome, eyes that stripped me bare, words that cut into me like knives. I’ve been treated like prey, stalked, threatened, cornered. Forced to smile and pretend it didn’t hurt, because being a woman means swallowing your pride. “Boys will be boys,” you’d say like it justified everything as if my discomfort, safety, and humanity were secondary to your needs.

Do you even understand what it does to someone, living in fear? Walking alone and wondering if you’ll make it home? Holding keys like a weapon, avoiding eye contact, second-guessing everything? Because in this world, being born a woman is an invitation to be violated, and then blamed for it.

So I mold myself into whatever role you expect: the maid, the whore, the virgin. I became a chameleon because shape-shifting was my survival. Every expectation, every demand, I met with a smile. Because if I didn’t you’d take even more. Then again, what’s left to take? You’ve already stolen my voice, my choices, and my self-worth.

I am exhausted. Exhausted because every day, I carry the weight of being a woman. Because all you do is take. When you’re done breaking me, after wringing out every piece of my humanity, will you just move on? To another woman, a new plaything?