Every Time I Get On the Streets

(or: 'Not All Men' Can Go Fuck Themselves)

Every time I get on a bike

some man reminds me

the world was not built

for women in motion.

A Coke to the face.

Spit on my cheek.

A honk, a hiss,

a “slut,” a “bitch,”

and once,

a plastic bottle that cracked against my spokes

and made me wobble like prey.

I was twelve.

Twelve years old

and two little white boys thought

They could baptise me in phlegm

for the crime of getting somewhere.

Following me until I reached my destination. Unprovoked. Nothing. Humble back then.

Today:

some polo-shirted prick

through his open fucking window

threw his sticky drink in my face—

like I was a bin, a joke,

a moving target.

Like my body

on the street

is his to mock,

his to drench,

his to stain.

And someone said,

“Maybe you have a vibe.”

Like confidence is a curse.

Like freedom smells like blood to them.

Like maybe I should fold smaller

next time.

I don’t want your fucking apologies.

I want my streets back.

I want to move through the world

without checking corners,

without dodging insults

like bullets,

without my dignity

washed off with cola.

Keep your ‘not all men.’

It’s always men

when the world splits open like this.

Always men

who see a woman

not as human

but as a punchline

in their violence.

I am done being the punchline.

I am the whole fucking poem.

I ride anyway.

Sticky, fuming, finger swinging, unbroken.

I ride like the threat

they always feared I was.

---

This isn’t the first time. Not by far.

I was twelve the first time a man spat at me while I was cycling. No provocation, no reason—just a girl on a bike, existing. I still remember the sting of it, the shame I didn’t have words for. The way I wanted to disappear but yelled back all the same. It only made him laugh more.

And it’s never really stopped.

This afternoon, I felt good cycling to work. No, I felt great, actually. Hair perfect, black sunglasses on, that rare click in my bones when I know I look like myself—not for anyone else, just me. Strong. Clear. Radiant.

And then a man in a fucking Polo chucked a full McDonald's Coke in my face.

It was so casual, like I was roadkill. Like he’d done it before. Like he was bored.

For two seconds, I wanted to cry. But then my body chose something else. I flipped him the bird, kept cycling, and said, fuck you, you’re not determining my day.

Because I’ve had enough. Enough of shrinking. Enough of questioning what I wear, how I move, whether I should have “smiled more” or “toned it down.” I’m done.

It’s always men. Not a metaphor, not a theory. In my case—always.

And I’m still here. Still biking. Still radiant. Still not yours to stain or silence.