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 following her.

"Don't talk to wolves, they want to kill us" her grandmother had said to her at age five.

She took small steps and ragged breaths,

quickly looking around once in a while.

On reaching, she had an eerie feeling in her tummy,

but not like the ones that made her get medicines from mummy.

She clutched grandma's medicines and her skirt tightly and entered the house.

"Hello honey!" she heard an odd voice, the feeling got deeper.

Grandma wasn't around and she doesn't remember much after.

Scared if what she remembers really happened or not,

scared that it really was real.

The blue on her arms from when he pinned her to the wooden floor,

the holes on her back from the nails on the same.

The nail marks on her face from when he clasped her mouth,

his shut eyes showing her the worst.

The red of her hood soaked with the red he left.

She gathered her cloak in a rush,

tried to look for grandma but her legs were numb.

The wolf stared at her as she did so,

stroking the grey black fur on his chest.

"Tell no one, be quiet, Little. Nobody will listen.

Grandma will pay and you shall be my feast again." his voice sent shivers down her spine.

She pushed it back to where the sun wouldn't reach it,

cried so loud that the moon wept with her.

Her silence ate away at her, as she nursed her own wounds,

mother asked her to remain quiet and grandma put her on a watch.

Was it her fault?

She stood stone cold at his funeral,

when he finally died of old age.

Some whispered at her mannerless self,

as they poured his dead self with flowery love.

They stood exasperated and chided her mother when she got up and said, "Maybe he died for good."

This isn't just the story of Little Red Riding Hood.