sometimes i wonder about the kind of girl i would have grown up to be if my trauma had never ceased to exist.
if i had never spent decades of my youth trying to mold my imperfections to the male gazes' views on what it meant to be a lady.
would i still have lived in the sin that led me to the wages of death or would i have lived freely with the spirit of the holy that showered me with serenity?
would i still have fought so hard for the freedom and solace that had never belonged to the violence of the patriarchy or would i have sat crossed legged in a chair like the woman my ancestors would have rendered me to be?
would i still have let the boys that masqueraded as men, see the forbidden depths of my God given body or would i have clothed myself with competence and capability? if my trauma had never ceased to exist, would this version of me just live to be seen as an example of who i never wanted to be?
i wasn’t quite sure what i’d name this poem but it is kind of personal to me.
