I am she,
Who screamed at the night,
Demanding justice for her blood,
Spilled by a knife,
Legs held by the mothers who
Were supposed to love her.
I am she,
Who held her baby tight,
As the bombs teared her world,
Walls falling down, her child
Of light, now the colour of earth.
I am she,
Looking at the boys passing by
On their way to school, laughter
And jokes echoing against her hut,
As she stays, alone, knowing she has been
I am she.
Crying in the corner, silently,
The shadow of his fingers still
Hanging around her arms, she
Trying to drink her tears, telling
Herself lies, for no one would
I am she.
Alone, unfed, hurt, turned
Into a shade, heavy with burdens
Beyond my age. I am she, seeing
My young face reflected on the eyes
Of those who shriek a name, that is
Supposed to be mine, a name of colour
And religion and place.
I am she, licked by shameless sights,
Riding my body with slimy thoughts
As I sit on the train, just wanting to go home.
I am she, walking fast,
Afraid of lonely streets and half lit parks.
I am she, acting like a man, for
My femininity is a hindrance to my brain.
I am she, full of rage, betrayed,
By blood and kin. I am she. Hiding,
Escaping, fighting, defending, the bitch
Who dared to think, speak, hold a
Governmental sit. I am she, the cunt,
Valued and reduced by the V of
Flesh between my legs. I am she, the
ass and the breasts, the enforced virgin
And saint, the named whore, the menacing
Danger to the future of
Underprivileged boys, the demeaner
I am, the one who forgot her role,
The broker of family and societies,
The bringer of the ills that have
Wane the greatness they
Once had, for daring to ask
For a little more.
I am Oliver Twist
Trapped forever in Nancy’s hide,
And it is okay that I die,
Twice a week, in the hands
Of my man.
It is fine that my purse is
Lighter, that I am punished
For daring to bloom
Into motherhood. Everything
Is alright, if I am shot
For wanting to go to school.
It is acceptable that I am
Attacked on line for
Expressing my mind.
I must expect threats
Of death and rape,
It comes with the game
Where I am to blame,
For my own subjugation,
For glass ceilings and
Violent bonds. After all,
I did wear the pink dress.
Painted my lips with gloss.
Drank a drink too much.
Defied tradition by loving
The wrong boy,
Spoke to soon, too fast, always
Rising my hand in class.
Believed the fairy tale
That human rights applied to me.
For I am she.
The mother, the sister,
The daughter, the friend.
The woman at the end of the lane,
Of the queue of causes the need
To be fought.
And I am irrational and selfish,
For not waiting for the proper time.
Ungrateful wench, showing no gratitude
For how far she is from where she came.
For I must lower my flame,
Not to blind the stars.
Be more like the firefly,
Humble and small.
But I want more.
I am she, all the “shes”, all the breasts
And wombs and legs and tongues and
Eyes and intellects and hands and feet
Of the She of the world.
And I am brewing a storm.