Poem on Gender Violence
Red Riding Hood was eight years old. The wolf was older and knew better. Little, as she was called, should not have to worry about that happening. She hopped happily to her destination, something that was a means of joy for her, turned sinister because of the wolf. The drool on his chin, the claws he was rubbing together, all of it reminded her of the bad men grandma warned her about. He kept petting her, telling her that she was his favourite, his claws would sometimes reach her waist and stay there until she took another hurried step. She got a glimpse of his big teeth as he said, "O my child, aren't you the most beautiful?" Suddenly, she didn't want to be beautiful, not even the type grandma called her. Grandma! Yes! In a hurry she told him about the medicines she had to take to her grandma's and ran off. The walk to her once favourite place was a long one, she kept looking over her shoulder to make sure wolf wasn't fol...