It was Tuesday and like any other Tuesday it started in a rush.
The bed was left undone, the food half cooked, the mantle showed specks of dust.
The blouse that covered my bosom, was wrinkled at my cleavage.
It wasn't meant to be suggestive while the rest of me was dishevelled.
It was a Tuesday, Pouring down like any other summer day,
Outside the incessant rain, inside the indomitable perspiration, Trickling down my face.
The ceiling fan blew against my body, plastering my clothes like second skin.
In the heat of the summer, it wasn't meant to be second skin.
It was a Tuesday on a summer morning where a crowded bus tormented me.
My sweaty wet clothes became an excuse for others to grope,
As if large hands need reasons to desecrate wide hips,
As if the body isn't already a foreign temple, For others to vandalise and loot?