one day I want to write a poem without imagery or metaphors.
my raw truth. an acceptance email with a smiley in the subject
and we love you with the heart in the body.
i will tattoo it all over my body
and be proud that i have attained mastery to body art.
i will kiss my nails for once for making me feel like
a delicate filament that mama wanted to hide,
say sorry for wolfing down my skin.
(don't laugh, you little pilgrims, i mean it).
mama says i am a bad liar.
i once told her my pads are soaked with red water.
she waxed my pointy scalp and asked me to keep it to myself.
good girls don't share dirty secrets.
don't read verses of Koran, she said.
because god loves mothers but considers young girls
a surprise gift that he is too afraid to unwrap.
i don't have any dreams.
i was never taught to look outside the window
and feel the warmth of fresh air.
i can only smell food for my petite figure
looks prettier when i cook meat and rice for my husband.
i am cold, fat meat, my husband jokingly says in front of his sleazy friends
who look at me as young child yelps at pasta.
i feel like a cow who needs to ask permission to feed her milk to the babies.
mama, can i ask you something?
did you truly write me when i was in your womb
or was i your rejected manuscript?