To those who raise daughters.

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Do not raise your daughters like sons.
She’s her own person,
and to be more like a man is not
an achievement.
Raise her like a daughter.
Raise her like a warrior, a goddess;
she will become both.
These are your lessons to teach:
Let her see beauty in more ways than what meets the eye,
tell her she’s more than how appealing men find her.
Serve her politics, and literature, and art, and music,
and see her devour it, every last word, ever last note.
Tell her she doesn’t need to compete with men,
teach her — there was never any competition.
These are your lessons to learn:
Watch her occupy the space the world owes her
for more than just what’s between her legs.
She must learn to love herself before
she loves anyone else.
Watch a revolution take birth in her.
She will bruise her knees and cut her palms
as she dances through the wild.
She’s a goddess now.
And the wild doesn’t tame her,
she tames it.
Other daughters will follow her footsteps,
and learn of her strength.
Your blood and bone,
will become so much more.
Remember,
the daughters of the world will one day become you.
Be prepared.
– महिमा कुकरेजा // AGirlOfHerWords
(image from here)

My body, the battleground.

 

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You’re my undoing.
The pressure on a
newly healed wound.
That breaks it open
and empties me of myself.

The sharpness of your
tongue on my mouth.
On my mouth.
The kisses that can only
belong in a battlefield.

Your words speak in War.
My hands beg for peace.
There are no negotiations.

My body taking the bullets.
My body under the tank.
My body falling from the sky.
My body desperate for survival.

You’re the double edge sword
I fall into heart first.
You can’t stab me in the back,
because I always welcome you
first, arms wide open.

You’re the prison
and the prison guardian.
I am the bars.
I am the window
in the small room.
I am the time that passes.

One day I’d know better.
One day you’ll come for mercy.
And find me covered in bloodshed.

Your arms find the
thread of my skin.
And you pull.
And you pull.
Till I’m bones.
And bones deserve
a resting place.

But you don’t believe in Gods.
And now I no longer know
if the Gods believe in us.

The inconsiderate leaving of tears.

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Part 6.

there are many ways to cry:
whimpering. weeping. howling.
bawling. sobbing. wailing.

do not ask me how,
ask my body that’s silently shook,
and violently trembled,
and desperately begged,
and made friends with pillows.

meet my eyes.
and deep crescents of dusk nestled.
they well tell you, the cries are gone.

now, what?

what happens when grief unlearns its language?
the hurt remains, the guest overstaying its welcome.

but people demand proof.
show me your pain;
they want to see your pain.

but the pain did no leave with the tears.
how inconsiderate.

(read the series in its entirety here)

Lately, the home could be just another house.

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Part 5.

even with all the crazy sex talk
he’s not them.
there are five hundred different ways to
spend the day with him
and two of them are my favourite things.
i read my book to him,
he says let’s write together.
sex doesn’t even make the cut with
all the stuff we still have to do.

he’s home.
pretension strictly left outside the door.
he makes me hot tea,
i wait for him on the couch,
but i never speak.
he already knows.
the silence never stretches,
the silence is music.

but lately, the home could
be just another house.
lately, i’m not sure he gets it at all.
lately, there’s been no tea.

(read the series in its entirety here)

Happiness is the pink teddy bear.

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Part 4.

Happiness is the toy you get
when you put the coin in.
The pink teddy bear.
I’ve put in 5 coins and the teddy
still sits there wearing
its mocking smile.

I wanna go home now,
it’s midnight, but the
teddy sits inside the glass box,
locked.

I wanna steal it because my
hands desperately need to hold it.
Tomorrow I will come back for it.
Before it’s gone.

Some people are better at getting
the pink teddy bears.
But I’m still stuck with the coins.

(read the series in its entirety here)

My feet no longer kill me.

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Part 3.

A says fresh laundry will make you feel better.
I do the laundry every night at one am.

B says a clean house will make you happy.
So I never let the house be dirty.

C says have you tried being more active?
So I join yoga, and miss half the classes.
But my legs are doing great.
I can do an almost 180 degree split.

D says sobriety is important.
So I don’t drink, I don’t do anything.
I forget what it was to drunkenly dance
till it killed my feet.

E says try harder.
But have I not?
How hard does hard need to get?
Does it need to finish me off as a proof of its strength?

(read the series in its entirety here)

I can’t talk anymore.

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Part 2.

I think we shouldn’t see each other,
not that we are,
but now I’m just mixing two different things,
anyway, back to not seeing each other.

I can’t be a burden.
I am a burden.

I can’t carry the weight of trying to prove something,
again and again, that spirals out of control, my control,
slips like jelly from my hands.

It’s there.
It’s just there.
I don’t want it there.

It just sits in silence pretending to be deaf,
but it knows I know it’s there.

I can’t explain this to you all over, all over,
all over; it makes the thing worse.

Then it cares even less about me wanting it to leave.
It has to leave.

 

(read the series in its entirety here)