They Controlled My Body, Then They Commented On It.They Made Me Less Than, Then They Stole My Pockets (I Want My Fucking Pockets Back)
Poetry & Prose by Britt Wolfe
They wrote laws for my body before I could read.
They named my hips indecent,
my voice disruptive,
my ambition a liability.
They said the world wasn’t built for women—
and then smiled as if that were nature,
not design.
They took my pockets first.
Quiet theft. Hidden seam.
Because a woman with nowhere to keep her hands
is easier to control.
Because God forbid I hold my own keys,
or my own cash,
or my own fucking future.
They told me to carry a purse—
a portable metaphor for dependence.
You can always tell a system is rigged
when even the fabric remembers who it belongs to.
And still they say, We gave you equality.
As if permission and freedom
are synonyms.
They controlled my body.
Then they commented on it.
They legislated my choices,
then reviewed the results.
Too fat, too thin, too loud, too late,
too ambitious, too emotional,
too sexual, not sexual enough.
Apparently, my only correct volume
was compliant.
They told me to smile more,
so I showed my teeth.
They called me hysterical,
so I studied history
and learned hysteria was a diagnosis
invented to medicate disobedience.
I should’ve framed the prescription—
it was the closest thing to recognition they ever gave me.
They told me to take a compliment
like a gift,
but I was the one who’d been wrapped,
ribboned,
and sold.
They told me I was a muse,
but never an artist.
A helpmate, never a hero.
A body, never a voice.
And now,
after centuries of carving obedience into our bones,
they wonder why our laughter sounds like vengeance.
Why our softness feels like a threat.
Here’s why:
I have been polite long enough
to know it changes nothing.
Politeness is the language of the unarmed.
And I am done speaking it.
I want my pockets back—
but not just the fabric.
I want what they symbolize.
Autonomy. Capacity. Ownership.
I want the space to carry my own life
without asking who it belongs to.
And if you think that sounds angry,
good.
It’s supposed to.
Anger is the sound a boundary makes
when it forms.
I am not your rib.
I am not your property.
I am not your afterthought,
your reflection,
your applause.
I am the whole damn story—
hands free,
shoulders squared,
stitching my pockets back on
with every word you tried to silence.
You had centuries to speak.
Now it’s my turn—
and I won’t need a handbag
to hold this much history.
KEEP MY WORDS ALIVE
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Poetry and Prose by Britt Wolfe
