I’m sorry, sister.
I watched as mama
took your hand
and placed it in his.

There was nothing I could do.
The same fate waits for me—
bound like roots,
tethered to a tree.

I am a broken calabash,
my dreams scattered
like soil after harvest.

Does a girl need a man
to make her dreams come true?

A girl is a matchstick—
she can spark alone.
Yet without marriage,
society calls her
a violin without strings.

She traded me like sand
for a gem.

I wept
as I held his arm.

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