In times of peace
A woman’s body
Is just her body
But in times of war
That body
(More frequently than not)
Becomes a battleground
A place where horrible atrocities
Are played out
To accommodate men’s demons

This woman’s body
Is a repository for those men’s fear
Their bodies are grenades
Ready to be detonated at any moment
Their hands and limbs
Are so full of rage
They sear the skin they touch
How many trophies
Are enough to quench their boundless
Misogynous thirst?

This woman’s body
Is a diversion
A five-minute respite
From a never-ending parade of horribles
What does it matter to
The pleasure-seeking soldiers
That she could use a respite too?
Or that from this point forward
She will feel their echo inside her
Punishing her with every step

This woman’s body is a warning
Her ravaged frame
No longer a life-bearing miracle
But rather a flag, to be waved in the face of the enemy
A symbol of testosterone-laced domination
And a vehicle for humiliation
How did I get in the middle of this fight?
The woman asks
And it is a valid question
Since it should not be a foregone conclusion
That rape is an essential part of every war