she accosts me in the street. namaste, she says.
i look at her blankly. my only language is english.
Browsing: Poetry
In the trenches of depression, I built a fortress and I was a Queen lining up my bouts of therapy like soldiers off to war.
Maybe they’ll be poets, academics,
teachers like their father,
one solid Ummah.
He asked me, why my colours don’t shine as brightly as hers.
And I slid,
Through the lips of her vulva
Onto the pathway of success.
Our mothers saw
That a future brighter than theirs
Lay before us.
Too soon, I felt the days get warmer.
My dearest Cinderella,
Your sisters can go fulfil their rite of passage
but you my dearest,
you will not go.
Pious puzzle
possessing an ability to answer
Come on, little baby
Try, choose!
Where’s your fluidity?