Raise your head
Raise your hand
Raise your voice
Speak it.

Shut your mouth
Close your eyes
Find your fear
Seek it.

Claim the place
Within yourself
Don't feel ashamed
Claim it.

Take your rage
From these past days
Take it.
Feel it.
Scream it!

Though my name might
Mean grief stricken,
I am proud to be named
After Malalai of Maiwand.

A heroine who fought
Side by side with men,
And won a victory that will always
Be remembered again and again.

When all hope was gone
To win the Anglo Afghan war,
You stood out with firm faith
And encouraged them in a roar,

                     -
“Young love! If you do not fall
  in the battle of Maiwand,
  By God, someone is saving you
  as a symbol of shame!”
                     -

Strengthened, heartened
By the words of a girl,
Who made a mark
On the history of the world.

When the flag bearer was killed,
You took off your veil,
And sang a song
As you tied it to the pole,

                     -
"With a drop of my sweetheart's blood
Shed in defense of the Motherland,
Will I put a beauty spot on my forehead,
Such as would put to shame the rose in the garden!"
                     -

Bravely you resisted
Annai Malalai!
As you breathed new life
From your beloved landai!

But your song
Was a last farewell,
For you yourself were struck,
To us, a death bell.

Though we won,
Your courage was never forgotten,
Your grave is for us a sacred shrine!
In the words of Ajmal Khattak:

                     -
"My Malalai is living, and they praise others' beauty.
Though they have eyes, they are blind."
                     -

Despite the many people
Who call you imaginary,
For me and every true Pashtun,
You are a miracle, a memory.

America had Molly Pitcher,
India had Lakshmibai,
France had Joan of Arc,
But we had you, Malalai.

The ****
is mightier than the
sword

⚠Trigger Warning:
The following poem contains subject matter pertaining to ****** assault and misogyny. ⚠
~
you call the ******

*****:

because the hair between my legs reminds you of a cat's fur? reminds you of an animal that is frightened by the simplest of matters--yes, you call me weak.

but that is just the way you prefer us, isn't it?

with our backs arched (but not too high).

forbidden to leave room for a man to crawl under our bodies.

a man is not meant to lie beneath a womxn, no;  

for, a womxn's place is between the man and the mattress.
___________________
***­:

is that all we are good for?
__________________­
box:

many things can be put inside a womxn, an empty vessel that you believe it is your role to make full again.

storage locker where you keep your **** rent-free.

slab of cardboard collecting filth in the attic.
__________________
bea­ver:

another animal analogy.
_________________­_
cookie. cupcake. ****(in). bean:

to butter up. to Flick.

inhaled, not savoured;

nothing more than a midnight fast-food run.
___________________
min­k:

skinned and sold and worn-- a notch in your belt (and your bedpost).
_________________­
cherry:

popped(!)
____________­_____
clam:

stolen treasure.
_________________­
kipper:

in the staff room, someone has left an unopened bag of shrimp crisps. A man I work with walks in and says it smells “like bad ***** in here.”


i laughed.


why the **** did I laugh?
__________________
flo­wer:

plucked from the garden of eden.
__________________­
*******:

blackout.
_____________­____
hoo-ha:

a battle cry.
___________________­
****:

a word i was taught never to say aloud

(i do it anyways.)
_________________­
***:

you abbreviate our bodies.

our voices, too.

will we never make it to four letters?

(love)
__________________­
whispering eye:

a whisper is but a gateway to silence.
__________________­_
You call the ******

*****.
***.
box.
******.
cookie.
cupcake.
****(in).
bean.
mink.
cherry.
clam.
kipper.
flower.
*******.
hoo-ha.
****.
***.
whispering eye.

but never what it truly is:

Beautiful.
____________________

they say i came from Adams rib
I am a woman of mud and marrow
God told you
She will leave a scar
God told you
She will not come cleanly
You told me
Fold nice  
You told me
Fold neat and
Be mine
I took my clay ribs and
made them my home  
I prayed to the divine and
the oh so ungodly
Until the Serpent came
Adam do you know that
I won’t let you eat my
Heart in full unless
I’m sure the taste of sin
Will forever stain your lips

Not all flowers have thorns
but roses do

roses are special, they are beautiful
just to the likes of you

so many flowers are pretty
but nothing compares
to the aesthetic of roses

and that's why they are aware.

their thorns protect them
they are born to fight

but they keep us silent,
cut our voices
they make us die

some people don't like roses
or don't like their thorns
they'll cut off their leaves
because they aren't thorns
and they'll cut down the thorns because nothing should be in the way

of their love

or so they say

when they cut our thorns
they are so proud
but do they know they take the rain out of clouds?

they break the spell,
they obstruct the beauty
sometimes they go ahead and just shoot me

I wonder, I wonder
oh dear rose of mine
why you die, oh you die
without your thorns sublime

not all flowers are roses
but none wishes to be
for the life of a rose

is as miserable as torture makes us be

She walks home from the ball, glass slipper in hand      
Underneath the stars,
the fairy-tale kind.       
Hair falls sloppily over her neck,                                      
and her dress turns back into tatters.                                  

She must pass through the forbidden forest,                    
the one that all women must travel.

As she enters, the handsome princes smile at her
before turning to dogs and howling.
They follow her from a distance,
but she still feels their hot breath on her
neck.

The trees come to life and taunt her,
laughing at her messy appearance
Until all their leaves fall to the earth,
and ***** at her curves and legs.

The bubbling stream forces her to view her reflection
in its cold and distorted mirror.
Then shows her beautiful queens
much prettier than her
Forcing her to make a comparison.

The princess makes it out,
though she hardly feels like one at all.
Scraping for some semblance of identity
She holds herself
in the harsh wind.

The way I expressed it didn’t fully
Make sense to my dearest
Who only likes men.
I’ve never prescribed to the scrutiny
Eyes of socks eyeing us as they do ****.
I used to see red as a fad that
had past and a warning that I’m
Not desired;
Nor will be, no matter my try.
But I’m realizing now,
Want is deeper than thou who have
wanted me only in theory.
Fruity or trans, and the girlfriend
I have, each is queer and there’s something more in it:
Queers see women the same way
they view art pieces;
So I’ve always been Venus and Ophelia,
The Laddy of Shallot— not some
acquiescent cool-girl
who’ll answer your questions of
public hair and fair children.
Where a woman I knew
sees a woman as through
some mans eyes focused on her *******—
I cut a fringe for the change,
And remain soft in shape
For these are a lover’s desires:
Wear your identity on your sleeve,
In the curve of your arm, on the scent of your hair and upon the pendant at your neck.
Like the romantics do in literature;
After de-centering men,
You can finally be free.

I've got the power to create
The hips and thighs
Perfectly voluptuous

I've got the power to birth
I've got the power to make life
I've got the power to make breath

Don't tell me that I am powerless
Don't tell me to do what you said
You answer to me

I am The Goddess