Revolution

  I shuffle awkwardly down the hall, struggling to maintain the grace and elegance expected of me. My steps are carefully placed onto the grey tile in a feeble attempt to avoid tripping over my skirt that drops below my ankles or revealing any skin in the process. What would the people think? What would they say? I pull on my gloves, worn to conceal, an anxious habit. 
  I nervously cast my gaze around the space, careful not to make eye contact with any of the men. What if I distracted them? Got in their way? Heat crawls up my neck, my unbearably tight collar tickling the bottom of my chin and trapping uncomfortable humidity under my clothing. It's getting harder and harder to breathe. 
  Catching my breath is it's own difficulty. The buttons of my shirt run all the way up to the base of my neck, restricting my chest and leaving me prey to rising claustrophobia. My hair wraps itself around my throat, damp with perspiration. I'm prohibited from tying it back. It has to be placed exactly where it is in order to hide any trace of my chest. It does it's job well. 
  A man in a greasy orange polo shoves me as he passes, mumbling obscenities under his breath. I blush, calling a squeaky apology over my shoulder, my hair tightening around my neck as I turn. I restrain myself from gasping for air and I keep my head down. 
  Women around me flash glares my way and wrinkle their noses, publicly shaming me for my foolish mistake. They pull their shawls tighter around themselves. They could easily be mistaken for piles of clothing with a sweaty face balanced atop, painted with a scowl. 
  I tug on my gloves again. When did the words "woman" and "human" become antonyms? When did our main concern become pleasing the society? When did all of this happen, because I would have liked to have been there to make damn sure it didn't end like this.