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 *****.

Courage wears a pleated mini skirt  
Red tights and Mary Janes
Gold shadow in the corner of her eye
Courage wears a **** bra
Three shades darker from two weeks worth of sweat
A silken ivory blouse, first two—
No— first three buttons undone
Scrubs
Courage wears overalls
Rolled at the ankles
A nose ring
Butterfly clip and an old locket
Courage wears men’s boxers on a female body
Dr. Marten’s with the chunky soles
Carabiner on the (right) belt loop
And her grandfather’s leather belt
Courage wears gold hoops and a silver watch
White after Labor Day and off-white on her wedding day
A lab coat in the morning, a breast pump at lunch, and a little black dress later tonight
Courage wears a uniform
Hand-me-downs and Goodwill sneakers
Cheap lingerie and slutty stilettos
An orange jumpsuit
Camouflage
Courage wears a binder to church
A burqa to school
Box braids in the office
Courage wears the pants
Wears the shoe when it fits
Wears her heart on her sleeve
Wears pain like a badge of honor
Courage wears a kitten heel
Even when it goes out of style

I remember the time in summer camp
when we could either go swimming or paint.
Despite how much I loved to paint,
I followed my crush to the pool,
thinking my bared skin might catch his attention.
I watched as he jumped in the water,
played football, and wrestled with his friend.
He had made no compromise,
didn't change his plans because I was there.
I remember coming back to the cabin
where my friends stood with their acrylics.
Where along the line did I learn
to abandon myself for merely the possibility
of male attention, approval, appreciation?
How early was it cemented in my brain
that I am just an object to be admired
and should try at every given moment
to put myself in someone's line of view?
When did it first happen,
and how long will it take me to deconstruct,
to decentralize this gnawing belief
that I am nothing if I'm not perceived?

I’ve
been standing for way too long
My legs
wobble and itch
For me
to move
  
My next
word shall tell a story
Of how
much I’ve faked
Of how
much I’ve pruned
  
My
father stands aside the altar
My
Husband in touch
Crying
tears of joy
  
How he’s
wanted me to be “normal”
I raise
my chin as I walk forward
I wonder
if my husband knows
  
The white
lacy dress dragging on the floor
The
white roses hiding
Their
thorns under my clasped hands
  
I look
to my right and there she stands
My lover
and bridesmaid
Watching
as I get married to another

Myths used to portray how
Eve possessed the original sin
Along with her overripe
Pain, passed down to all of kin
Confess, tell me now
Is this the reason why
Women get born with shame
Stamped on our skin, shame
Buried within, shame
Dragged for decades
Like that tree in Eden
This shame shall never die
Banished, barely forgiven
As soon as you leave
Your mother’s ribs
You are subjected to laws
Of your father’s rage
The world where men
Decides on who I am
Should have been
Left as a myth

You wear the mask of kindness,
A porcelain smile, polished for the world.
Your hands reach for all but the one who lingers
In your shadow, silent as dusk—
Is she truly beloved, or just a name you keep?

She is a paper lantern in a storm,
Her grievances fold like hidden creases,
Tied tight as a kimono’s breathless knot.
She stands within the sacred rites,
A ghost among the living,
Draped in the weight of unseen chains.

But you chase reflections in silvered glass,
A puppet to the world’s approving gaze.
Yet the truth is not a mirror’s trick—
It bends, warps, escapes,
Like light slipping through a shattered lens

The bruises you veil beneath a painted smile,
Layers of foundation masking hollow nights.
Dark, pale suffering seeps through the cracks,
While red-rimmed eyes whisper silent prayers—
Begging, pleading for an unheard dawn.

"God, how cruel to silence a woman's cry."

But fate was inked in unseen hands,
And she faded—not in scripted sorrow,
Not in a drama where love rewrites the end,
But in the quiet decay of indifference.

It wasn’t just her war to lose,
But a battle rigged by a world that never listened—
A coin flipped, always landing on the rotten side.

She ponders as she lies on the bed of roses,
The thorns biting through her skin,
Pellucid elsewhere, but the stem,
Surrounding her, engulfing memory.
How did she get there? She does not know,
For this is all she feared.

The bear on her chest leaves her to wonder:
the caged giant now takes pity,
Afraid it is of the petite beings,
And afraid it is of the fiery flash it brings.
Distorted creatures, partly seen through the iron rings.

Does the beast ever pray to be elsewhere?
She ponders as the trembling devours her.
The puny-beast is now the prey,
Behind the iron, it is caged.
What is the difference, she wonders, as one twins with the other.
At this breath she figures out the answer that wages war against eachother.

Both the maiden and the beast would choose the bear.
The irony of it—now she is aware.
Rules of mankind she is reminded of:
If a bear scares you, contain it.
If she swirls your lust, cover it.
Yet you cannot sustain—act on it.

As the cotton turns scarlet,
The world now turns aware.
But it’s not the bear she fears.
It is the cold-eyes that judges.
As they still question the lass—
That lies motionless as the wounds tear.

"The bruin earned it!" accuses the chap.
"It is cause of what she wears."
She ponders as the coldness embraces,
She lies as she sheds ruby crystals,
Eyes turning hazy, feeling dazed,
Losing feelings elsewhere,
The only thing shading this pain
is the sorrow-night’s weep ablaze.
As she reaches the gate that awaits.

As two ends near-
Them and you,
These biased questions may ascend:
How old were they? What did she wear?
How did they look like? Was she rare?
But dare a man ask another,
Why did you do this?
Was it ever fair?

Women being watched

when they enter, nervously --


cling to their handbags.