What does a fruit, unripe, detached from its source sing? Slimy lamentations of unattainment.
Devouring birds may not get a look to see her, ripen and stomach to their fill her delicacy. I mean, desire for debauchery averted. Good riddance, yes?
There is a sorrow that nature speaks of when form and expression is bound.

Choice is the insignia of higher life. “Come to knowledge” the elders counsel. Futility i say when the tentacles of the mind, cut off. Good riddance, no?
She wriggles in pain weeks long, trudging along the wilderness of confusion, conflation of existential wishes.

Ripe fruits, plucked in due season, are a delight to the belly.
Rounded with light and freedom.
Well aware of her proclivities
Chooses her excesses.
To deny her is to pour acid on her humanity.

A female is the tree.
The fruits are her parts.
The world is the vineyard.
The thorns are prejudice, stereotypes and regressive traditions.
Nurture? Yes.
Mutilate? No.
#SayNoToFGM#