Humare Muh Khoon Kyo Nahi Lagta?

Why was Ted Bundy a man? Why is there no woman who could kidnap, kiss, slaughter, rape and consume a man just for sheer pleasure. I am not looking for a sociological answer. I am merely questioning what unrests my mind. Woman is never a serial killer, she will never cut a man's corpse in eight or nine pieces, put in her carry bag and drive halfway across the country with him sitting in the backseat. Driving miles and miles with her husband's flesh and bones rattling behind her, and she blinded with an anger so intense that the horror of death doesnot pierce her. Its not like there isn't much to invoke us, women, its not like we are not angry and its not like our families were the best, most stable and healthy. Her mother hit her more than her father, and her brother stared her legs when she slept, her uncle sat on her and asphyxiated all her air and dreams and then there is her whose lover is set out with a knife, also the husband that gets an erection seeing her in the kitchen. Its us, all of us. but why haven't any of us ever picked up a knife or a blade, a bottle of acid or  more women and set out to gangrape a man. not like we don't have a libido, not like we don't like BDSM as an active participant, see how their flesh melts under the leather belt we can tie around their chest and arms and legs, then have each one of us forcefully push ourselves, probably keep skinning his balls, to enhance the pleasure, sit on his face and leave him breathless. Why don't women rape? Why aren't women cannibals, devotingly devouring the flesh of children and young boys? Where is our anger going? and that sweet bitter taste of blood on our tongue, oh why isn't that a desirable one evoking more hunger and thirst than the sweetest chocolate. Why is my and your blood easy to shed, why are my breasts more vulnerable than his, why haven't I ever actually went ahead and took a man's life, though I keep dreaming and planing of how it would be and how it would feel. The warm blood oozing out of the stomach, warm on my hands and dark near my lips. Why doesn't a wife actually slit her husband's wrists, rather than hers? 

 My veins have the same blood as yours, but why don't you feel my rage? My hair were long as yours, but why do you ask your father/brother/lover before cutting? My voice is questioned and burdened like yours, but why don't you speak louder? My clothes have the same heritage as yours, but why don't you dress fearlessly? I am a woman just as you are, my femininity is a power and a stance on its own, but why are you scare of being called a 'feminist'? My body was touched and trembled under many men, but why don't you see me like a sister? My insanity is a freedom earned, but why are you persistent in being called sane, 'proper'? My hands are rising either to pick a knife, a blade or a rock, but why are you still making plaits with them? My revenge is roaring, but why are you killing your children instead of lovers? Why are you the Sita waiting on freedom and revenge, and not the Medea, blood and tears running amock in your hands and heart. How long must we, you, me and my sisters wait. How many more bodies to pile, how many more screams of your daughters?

Either slit those wrists or prepare to slit his'.