My tongue is my sword.

I slash the men of my country

with reason and knowledge,

While they rebuttal with

their phallus and acid.

Consent?

What consent? Opputal?

Enna opputal?

The price of my reasoning,

is my right to say no.

.

My body is my temple.

I stand for myself in my

shorts, my tank tops,

My two

pieces, my bodycon dresses,

While the male gaze strips

me of my kalacharam,

my sanskar,

My manam, my valarppu.

.

Speaking wisdom and truth,

Each syllable,

stress, and sibilant,

Well thought out,

never leaving it to intonation,

But my tongue is lost

when thousands sightsee

this temple,

Transcending space and time,

thousands more comment

about its inferiority.

.

A temple

is a place of divine;

welcome to all.

Men see and touch

divinity,

While tasting it

in the curves of

the structure, in the texture

of the shape,

Women hear and

smell divinity,

For its true being,

the temple, a place to exist.

.

Misogyny only grasps physically.

Penniyam sees

into the soul spiritually,

Demanding a

temple unscathed,

My fleshly existence

means I am undeserving,

Hence, belittled,

assaulted,

mutilated, manipulated.

.

The macho creed

of the colored society,

Only put their palms together,

Finger to finger,

bending their elbows and wrists

in place,

In salutations

of respect to Goddesses

Praying for strength

and protection.

.

Goddesses depicted vividly

through bright colors, and tactile imagery,

An exaggeration

of the goddesses leading

real lives,

Fighting the real villains

that are these men,

Transmitting genuine

ethereal superpowers,

Sometimes even losing themselves in the battle.

.