The Commodification Of the Female Form

By Shreya Sreekumar

The Commodification of the Female Form

They tell me my body is currency.

A coin pressed into the palms of men who never asked if I wanted to be minted.

I am a billboard,

a mannequin,

a mannequin with a pulse—

skin tagged, priced, discounted on sale days,

my worth scribbled in red marker across cleavage and hips.

They dress it up as empowerment.

Lipstick shades named after sins they never let me commit.

"Cherry Temptation," "Nude Desire,"—

desire, they whisper,

as though my existence is a supermarket aisle.

As though hunger belongs to them.

History carved this bargain into bone.

From temple sculptures frozen mid-arch of spine,

to glossy magazine spreads teaching girls that a ribcage is

a runway,

a stomach is

a blank page to be erased.

The female form, they said, was divine.

And then they sold God in pieces.

My thighs became marketing campaigns.

My waistline, a battlefield where industries thrive.

Breasts are billboards,

backsides are billboards,

every curve weaponized into commercial slogans.

“Buy this, be this, own this.”

And if you can’t?

You are less.

But here’s the thing.

A body is not a commodity.

It is not your canvas,

your cage,

your customer loyalty program.

It is a storm with a pulse.

It is the drumbeat of generations who learned to love themselves

in secret.

So I say—

to the cameras that strip me pixel by pixel,

to the brands that eat me alive and call it glamour,

to the world that wants me smaller, quieter,

consumable—

I am not your product.

Not your mannequin.

Not your bargain deal of the week.

This body is not for sale.

This body is revolution.

This body is inheritance.

This body is mine.