i’m a woman born where the hills roll like old records,
where the dirt’s thick with stories and the air tastes like whiskey and wildflowers.

the mountains bleed black tar, poison dripping into creek beds,
and the government’s promises stink like rotting meat in a locked fridge.
but the women, ******* — they keep moving.
sideways, under, through the cracks in the system.

they’re not saints or martyrs — just survivors with sharp teeth,
ready to bite through the *******,
ready to carve out their own **** place
in the raw, relentless hills they call home.

Black girl blues
What to do when a black girl has the blues?
What if her mama has them too?
So quietly weary but louder than we hear
Only her daughters get to feel the pain of her fears
What if her sister has them too?
When she’s bared it all and still tries to be soft
When she’s playing peek a boo with her childhood,
Sometimes you see glimpses of where her innocence left off
When survival kills innocence and all too young you know this sadness
They say it was your choice,
I can only assume my niece will face the same madness
And probably my daughter too
Oh so resilient black girls, oh so resilient blues
Our imaginary friend,
Even when they see only we can understand,
Sad black girl
Sad brown eyes
they see lies in your tears when you cry
They see rage and anger, hell if it’s earned
We mask, hide, shrink to not be the ones who turn
Dark, ugly, battered, beaten broken,
Sweet black girl it’ll get better,
May your heart remain open

My pocket of the world is filled
Of women who know the sound of wisdom on their own tongue
Like stick knows stone like
Honey dripping backwards from the the comb like
Planet knows patience like
Honest-to-Goddess-truth and nothing quieter than that

My heart lives in the home that is Girl and Mother
Wonder and Womb  
Made of all that is alive and
Built by sacred hands

And I want to swim to the Moon and call her my sister
Drink wine with Dawn and
Tell her the myth about Eve
Just to hear her tender laugh
Tell her she is what makes the tides turn
Tell her
I belong to Love!
And Love is a woman!
And there has never been anything more beautiful than that!

I’m afraid.

Afraid—of what?

Of losing what was never mine,

Or living again what once broke me apart?



Four walls hold me, silence loud as screams,

A prisoner of tradition, stitched into dreams

That were never mine to begin with.

They said, “You’re a girl — isn’t this your gift?”



Cook.

Clean.

Smile.

Be thin, be light, be silent, be bright.

A perfect dish, a perfect face,

A perfect shame wrapped up in grace.



You’re just seventeen,

Too young to worry, they mean.

But the mirror whispers otherwise—

“Be worthy for the man who will one day arrive.”

Why was I taught so soon to please,

To fear, to fold, to always appease?



Room messy like my mind,

Thoughts tangled, none kind.

White enough? No.

Thin enough? No.

A good girl? No.

Worthy of love? Only if I show

Obedience stitched into every chore,

While they walk out the door

To breathe, to live, to soar.



And me?

I wait.

A daughter not quite hers,

A bride not quite theirs.

“Amanat,” they say — borrowed breath,

Belonging nowhere till death.



They call me lazy for sleeping late,

But how do you rest when your thoughts suffocate?

Girls don’t get tired, they say.

Girls don’t get to ask why.

They just rise, serve, smile, and comply.



And if I speak?

I’m loud.

If I sit?

Too proud.

If I want rest?

I’m ungrateful.

If I don’t cook?

I’m shameful.



But what if I ran?

What if I fled to a place unknown,

Where I wake when I wish, and breathe on my own?

Where love isn’t earned by labor or lies,

And no one tells me who I am through their eyes?



I’ll go.

Far away.

Where the sky doesn’t care what I wear,

Where silence heals, not hurts.

Where I am not a role,

Not a burden,

Not an “amanat.”



Just a girl.

Just a soul.

Trying to be whole. ع۔

She’s not taken seriously for her innocent smile, her round eyes, her rosy cheeks
She’s a child at heart; or at least that’s what her face says.

She’s not taken seriously for the curve of her hips, the swell of her *******, the length of her skirt
She’s an adult, after all; or at least that’s what her body shows.

Too young to understand the problems life has to offer;
Too mature to go under the radar of prying eyes.

Fragile;
****;
Sweet;
Fuckable;
A trophy to have;
A means to an end.

“You’re a woman now,” they tell you, but that means nothing more than getting treated like a child yet being expected to handle it like an adult.

Her face is angelic: a cherub, something untouchable and pure.
Her body is the devil himself
- the ultimate temptation, she’s told -
and that’s what she starts truly seeing it for,
it’s evil,
because why else would she get treated this way,
if not for her body?
she begins punishing it, because she’s the evil,
right?
at least that’s what she’s told.

and so the angel sees the devil for what it is,
and begins torturing it slowly
until nothing is left but skin and bone
and people saying
“such a shame, she used to have such a sweet face”
“what a waste, she had a beautiful body”

such a shame,
what a waste
of a body
for an angel to become the devil.

They say,
A girl belongs at home-
Learn to cook,
Not to dream.
Don't fly too high,
What will people say?

She's married before she's grown,
A child holding another child,
Who haven't even known,
Why a mother is called so.

Her books replaced with bangles,
School replaced with in-laws home,
Teacher replaced with husband barely known,
Limited to cook, not to dream.

They chant caste like a curse,
As if birth decides worth.
They build temple for goddesses,
But beat the women,
Who are an incarnation of same goddess.
They worship the goddess with flowers and gold,
But still Bound with the dowry which is now old.

This the dark reality of a society,
Who is modern outside,
But narrow minded inside.

the lockers rife with clowns and the frittering of time as the ***** boys got ready to work their ***** minds down at the ***** factory and boast about ***** things too often degrading and unkind.

I tried to stay out of it
until one officious co-worker
had the gall to ask,
“what’s your preference in women?”

whereby, my response was,

“I see my women like flavors;
white women are too bland,
black women are too flavorful and
Indian women are a bit over-seasoned.
you need the right amount of spice.
Latina women got it but they cheat
so, I’d have to go with Asian women.
they’re perfection is unmatched.”

laughter emerged and rumbled
down the grey factory walls
where the metal tin roof had rattled,
the ***** air pervaded with rust and tears
and a mouthful of peanuts were spat onto a grimy floor

they laughed and kept on laughing
until their bellies burst

never have they heard such
a response like that before

and I just went back to work,
treading in the depths of my own conviction,
not really seeing why I wasn’t
being taken so
seriously.

It's with petting soft

boxing gloves and a sweet smile --


that I bare my teeth.

To my memory, I've fallen down the stairs twice
Once I was taken to the hospital, at an age when I wasn't aware of the word fright
The other when the sound of footsteps was taken over by the laughter, while I looked down and silently cried

The first time, there were tears, but there was no shame
I could see the blood, but there was no pain
When my head was wrapped with something white with red blood stains
The other time, it was different
It was the viewers' entertainment
It hurt me more because
As a kid, I've been too used to the sweet words and helpful hands

I decided to wait for someone who's worth the breath I'm saving or stay unloved
So I've seen those hands clapping together but I've also seen my fingers hanging in the air untouched
Because I wasn't looking for a pretend, a friend till it's all said and done
So I've had those empty so-called "stick-around" hugs

I've even tried to be a single person's pleaser
But the tailor never stitched me to be entangled with people
Sometimes the colour doesn't match,
Sometimes the needle picks out the bonded thread
And sometimes I didn't waste my days to find out the reason

Maybe the incidents where I couldn't sleep even in my own house
Or where I couldn't dare to stand alone in the outside crowd
The one which I still can't speak of to myself
Are the reason why I think that "believing in someone" is the shortest route to hell

I am sure everybody has had hard times
And I am not giving the importance to myself
I am not making it all about me
But there's no one, and to you, I'm justifying myself
You can tell how vulnerable I feel

To my memory, I've bought a rose twice
Once, it was never sent; in my hand, it slowly died
The other time, the rose was picked up
But it was sent by me, so it was disliked

Memories don't always bring the joy; sometimes it's best folded
And I'd say to every old me, who's been "never chosen," "left hurt," and "self distorted":
Don't blame your legs, because you couldn't run
Don't blame your hands, because you couldn't paint
Often days, your body will feel burned
Don't blame yourself, if you'll ever faint
Maybe what you've dreamed, you might not get
But a good girl always lives along and appreciates what's been served on the plate

I can be your everything,
I can be your whole
just don't treat me
like a *****.