Animal woman, man

I once read: "100 women trafficked and enslaved in a human egg farm-drugged, violated, and harvested. The world barely blinks." The words sat in my stomach, heavy, rotting. Not shocking, not new-just another line in the never-ending horror novel that we call reality. And I knew. I knew this was going to start happening. They don't want us to have rights over our bodies. They want our reproductive abilities, our blood, our flesh-ripped from us, sold, discarded. They have done it before, they will do it again. They will keep doing it until the whole world is made of screaming, and even then, they will find a way to profit off the sound. The most disgusting atrocities of this world always boil down to men. Men in suits, signing laws with hands that have never known suffering. Men in basements, clicking through images of stolen girlhood. Men in back alleys, in boardrooms, in fields where no one can hear you beg. Men who strip bodies like machines, who see wombs as factories, who think "birthgiver" and "livestock" are only a breath apart. Care about this? Care about them too. Because the same hands that cage a woman are the ones that slit the throat of a calf, that force a pig into labor again and again until she collapses from exhaustion. The same system that makes bodies commodities, that calls it "farming" when it happens to animals and "controversy" when it happens to us. And the world will blink. Once. Twice. Then turn away. It will take a revolution to stop it. A reckoning. A purge. A fear so deep it festers in their marrow, so they know—they know-that the world has changed and it will never be theirs again.