Shunaida mubeen

Shunaida mubeen Jun 24

They said —
“Lower your voice, you’re a girl.”
“Hide your hurt, fix your face, be soft.”
But what if I’m made of scars
stitched together by things I never asked for?

I cried — not for drama,
but because it was the only language I had left.
But even my tears made them angry.
Even my silence was called wrong.

I searched for loyal hearts,
begged for safe hands —
But friends turned into strangers,
and love left like it never planned to stay.

So I turned homeward,
thinking: “If not them, then at least my parents?”
But they became my deepest wound —
doing what even enemies wouldn’t do,
then blaming me for the bleeding.

“Control your emotions.”
“Girls don’t talk like that.”
They made me feel broken
for simply being human.

I see other daughters —
held, protected, understood.
Mothers loving them like warmth itself.
Fathers soft with pride in their eyes.
Siblings standing beside them like shields.

And I ask —
What did I do so wrong
to never be loved like that?

Mama left,
and with her went the last piece of light.
Since then, days blur.
Nights are longer.
Life never stood straight again.

I gave my best.
I stayed kind.
But kindness in this world
feels like walking into fire barefoot —
and then being blamed for burning.

And now,
what’s left of me?
Just a tired soul,
still waiting for something
that maybe never existed in the first place.

Shunaida mubeen Jun 20

a daughter made of wounds

i wasn’t born to be hated
but somehow, i became the easiest one to hurt.
my name
the first they throw when something goes wrong,
even if i was just breathing in the other room.

i don’t speak anymore
because when i do,
they twist my words into blades.
but silence isn’t peace either
they still say “she’s hiding something.”
i can’t win.
not even with silence.

i’m not allowed to choose.
not allowed to rest.
not allowed to wear what i love,
sit where i feel safe,
or even close my door.
my life is a prison
with no locks,
just people
who keep reminding me
i have no freedom.

my brother
he’s gold in their eyes.
he breathes, and they smile.
i bleed,
and they ask why i made a mess.

my second mother,
the one who once called me her own
now walks past me like i’m nothing.
her words for him are sweet and careful,
for me
sharp, bitter, unforgiving.

my father used to call me princess.
now he calls me a mistake.
i wonder if he even remembers
the version of me he once loved.

and maybe what hurts the most is this:
no one loves me.
not truly.
not gently.
not in the way that doesn’t feel like I owe them something in return.
every person who should have loved me
chose to hurt me instead.
every touch became a bruise.
every word became a scar.

i don’t know what i did
to deserve being the outsider
in my own home.
but now i’ve stopped asking why
because even the question
gets me hurt.

i try. i do the chores. i keep quiet.
i hide my pain like it’s something shameful.
but even then
“so what if you helped?”
“you don’t do enough.”
“you’re the problem.”
they say it like it’s the only song they know.

sometimes, i wish
i could unzip this skin
and leave behind the version of me
they never cared to understand.

i don’t want love anymore.
i just want silence
that doesn’t scream at me.
i want kindness
that doesn’t come with conditions.
i want to exist
without feeling like a burden.

i am a daughter
not by how they treat me,
but by how much i keep loving
even when i’m unloved.

but now,
i am also a daughter made of wounds,
stitched together by the nights i cried alone,
still standing,
still surviving,
even when no one clapped for me.

— The End —