I am unraveling. Not metaphorically. Not in the precious, pastel, poetic way that makes pain consumable. No — this is a tearing. An unsilencing. A stuttering growl lodged between my thighs and my throat. It’s global. It’s purple. And it’s all over your goddamn feed.
Everyone’s profile picture turned violet overnight like bruises blossoming across a digital body. Mine too, of course. What else can I do with this grief that doesn’t make it ornamental? Purple is mourning without apology. Purple is the lip print left after a scream. Purple is me, typing this half-naked with rage slicked under my arms.
Do you know what it means to ache politically? To sweat through statistics? To want justice so hard it feels like hunger? Every three minutes, a woman is being buried. Not figuratively. Not the metaphorical death of patriarchy. I mean actual coffins, actual soil, actual little girls torn open by men who say they loved them. 15 women. Every. Single. Day. In South Africa alone.
They told us to lie down at noon — one minute for each woman who won’t get back up. I didn’t lie down. I screamed into the mirror and came hard to remind myself I’m still alive. I licked the salt from my own neck like it was holy. I didn’t want stillness. I wanted thunder.
You think this is exaggeration? That’s cute. You should read the Reddit threads. r/TwoXChromosomes is basically a morgue of confessions. Women bleeding stories like they’re slipping off a gurney. They whisper through keyboards: “He only choked me once… I think he was sorry.”
We change our profile pics and call it protest. We cry in car bathrooms and call it resilience. We post petitions with hashtags and hope the algorithm plays god. But deep down, every woman I know has a list — of men she won’t be alone in a room with. Of nights she barely survived. Of smiles she’s had to weaponize.
And now the feed is purple. Like mourning dressed up for attention. Like bruises becoming banners. Like femininity reclaiming its feral.
This isn’t just South Africa. It’s Mexico. India. Kenya. Online. Offline. Our grief migrates. Our rage is polylingual. In Nairobi, girls are marching. In Buenos Aires, mothers chant their daughters’ names until the sky rips open. In Delhi, we’re still burning. In Paris, we’re still testifying. In every country, in every language, the chorus is the same: Not one more. Not. One. More.
Desire lives here too. Don’t be fooled. I want a world where I can want without fearing. Where my moans aren’t interrupted by emergency exits. Where every climax isn’t a cliff. Where I can fuck without wondering if this is the night I’ll be found on the news.
But until then, I scroll.
Until then, I screenshot rape confessions and email them to women Reps who don’t read.
Until then, I wear black lipstick and purple fury and give my vibrator a name like Vengeance.
Until then, I will write like my life depends on it — because it does.
And I will keep rereading this world like it’s a lover I can’t quite trust.
Tell me — how do you mourn 15 women a day?
One profile picture at a time, apparently.
But don’t stop there.
Change your picture. Then change your laws. Your language. Your lineage. Your god.
And when you’re done — come lie down with me.
We’ll count the bodies.
And then we’ll make them count.