They tell me I am
stepping beyond limits
again-
crossing lines that
I, possessing Womb and
Breasts and Hips and Vagina (!),
have no right loitering close to.
And yet, the audacity.
That I am a woman,
a woman and a Muslim,
and because
“We don’t do that”
and
“We aren’t like them”
I become 'We'.
Without consent,
without inquiry about
selves that live within me-
Instead, the selves
I must mould myself into
are outside,
suppressing and stifling
my lovingly crafted universe,
preparing it for Propriety
and Culture and Expectations
and Womanhood-
surely, I should know my true place?
What does it mean to be
born the “weaker” sex?
When the adjective sticks
and stubbornly refuses to
washout-
like that stain on
your favourite white shirt
that never quite disappears,
and you scrub away until
the fabric is worn, until it is torn-
but the stain,
the stain is resilient,
mocking you.
That my strength,
my will and my
identity inconsequential,
that I am daughter and sister,
then I am wife and mother,
but I always belong to others-
Because
god forbid I blaspheme
and declare Autonomy,
declare that I am Human,
proclaim my personhood-
equilibrium as ‘we’ know it
will shatter and
the world collapse.
When your moral universe
thrives at the expense of mine,
and I watch as you plunder.
This is what out-of-body feels like-
asphyxiation and
slowly descent into death.
