for the one who wages war from her father’s house
There is a room
where the mirror is cleaned
by hands that pray for her return.
She draws a blade with manicured grip
and calls it liberation—
but the war she wages is funded
by the very peace she pretends to renounce.
Her rebellion arrives
in first-class comfort,
her prayers echo
from marble bathtubs
and curated playlists
with titles like
“healing”
and “rage.”
She is the daughter
of the one she claims to flee—
but the mansioned roof above her ache
is paid in his name.
And the poetry?
It is not born of blood,
but Wi-Fi.
New iPhones every season.
A bed delivered in twelve boxes..
of fatherly love she does not unpack
because it’s easier to sleep
on metaphors.
She does not kneel.
She poses.
She does not fast.
She captions.
They gather in awe,
praising the deity of her discontent,
not knowing
her god is a trust fund
and her gospel
a curated pout.
This is not exile.
It’s a vacation
in the palace
of grievance.
But even velvet grows mold
when worshipped too long.
And no one asks
why the daughter never bled
while calling it war—
why the dress of defiance
was stitched from a name
she no longer honors,
and driven in a car
her labor never earned,
to places that dishonors
a wealthy father's
whole household
But oh,, isn't she powerful?
