I just wanna be a cat.

If I could come back again

start over, start soft

I think I’d like to be a cat.

Not the pampered kind with bows in her fur

and a bell announcing her every move.

No, I want to be the quiet queen

of alleys and sunlit rooftops,

disappearing when I please,

reappearing without question.

A shadow, a presence,

a creature who belongs only to herself.

Because cats are allowed to be

what women are punished for.

They are sensuous and selfish,

delicate but disobedient.

They stretch and yawn with desire,

crawl into any lap they like,

and leave before sunrise.

And no one calls them names.

No one asks for a body count.

They do not need to apologize

for wanting warmth one night

and space the next.

They are loved despite it

sometimes because of it.

Imagine a world that lets you be loved

for your instincts.

For your mood swings.

For your need to vanish.

For your refusal to stay small.

I envy that.

Because in this life,

I have been told to make myself understandable,

palatable, pure.

Told to wrap my want in silence,

to shrink my longing into a laugh,

to be seen, but only if I'm good.

And I have been good.

So good it hurt.

But cats

they are not “good.”

They are not “bad” either.

They simply are.

I want that kind of existence.

I want to live in my body

without a jury in every room.

To be touched only when I wish.

To be praised for my mystery,

not punished for it.

Men take this liberty every day.

Their hunger is natural,

their exploration expected.

But women?

We must explain every kiss,

account for every ache,

earn the right to desire.

In my next life,

let me want freely.

Let me choose and unchoose.

Let me not be shamed

for leaving a man who doesn’t listen

or wanting two who do.

Let me be stroked

but never owned.

Let me love one

or five

or none

and never have to justify it.

Let me wear my body like silk

unwrinkled by guilt.

Let my femininity be wild,

not weaponized.

Let me purr, not apologize.

Because maybe all I want

is to be allowed the same softness

men are handed without asking.

The same breath.

The same room to roam.

So if I am given another life,

don’t make me a martyr.

Don’t make me perfect.

Make me a cat.

And let the world make peace with that.