Did you hear her pleading whispers at night?
I am a woman, I am not really sure what to say. I have had ups and downs in my life, I have been asked to sacrifice. Sometimes I do it willing, sometimes forcefully.
I have not been allowed to wear clothes of my choice, I have been asked to dress appropriately for my safety, I obliged. Well, yes I am not physically strong, I cannot fight a gang of morons. So, I covered up and walked with my head down because who wants to be an object of illicit desire.
Growing up, I have been asked to dress well, wear make-up, act like a girl and look pretty to meet the standards of beauty, set by whom? I still wonder. I don’t want my skin to glitter and shine, I want to be in my PJs and read books of my choice.
I care for myself I know how things work in the male-dominated work places. I have a voice which is sometimes heard and often times ignored. But, I am not lame to scream and shout, I am wise I will find better ways to get things done the way I want.
I have been asked to come home early no later than 7 PM because the night is dark and full of terrors. Hungry men lurking around dark alleys ready to pounce on a girl who’s alone, who may or may not be dressed provocatively. I have heard stories, watched the news, I am scared too and so I do as I am asked to do.
Some women ask me, “Do you know how to cook? How will you feed your man?” When I replied no, they laughed at me, so I laughed too. I did learn cooking though, to feed myself and the ones in need. Nobody told me how rewarding and therapeutic cooking could be.
When men made their moves on me and I did not jive to their vibe, they called me names. But, it did not affect me as I knew already that they could never respect my standards and boundaries.
I am in my 30s, I am asked when I am having babies? I understand you are curious and these are questions for my well-being, but reproduction is not a role that every woman needs to play. In a world that’s populated and polluted by human beings, do we really need more babies?
There are some things that sometimes women need to do. Not because somebody has asked us to, but because we are smart enough to understand how the world works.
Sometimes the messages passed on to women are wrong. We have not been treated equally, but we know the right from wrong.
We are patient, we are relentless, we are fighters, we are strong. Living through life like everyone else, we do not ask for more or less, because we know that we are the best.
She wore white and flinched.
All these years, lavender was her color.
Lavender were the sheer curtains rising and falling with the wind.
The velvety pillow covers on which she rested her head to read.
Her closet had different shades of lavender,
Plum-colored scarves, mauve satin shirt,
Floral lilac dresses, amethyst gems in the rings.
Wine-colored sweaters, regal purple heels.
The sheets on the bed had stains of lavender.
The light shaded rug on the floor was faded in purple.
In a frenzy, she had painted the wall in the corner of her room purple.
The hanging basket in her balcony bloomed with fake mulberries.
On cold days of winter, she sipped hot chocolate from her periwinkle mug,
While a lavender throw lay at her feet.
The streaks on her auburn hair were purple.
Her nails painted purple.
Today, she had to forego the purple crown.
For a white bridal gown.
There’s something super attractive about women in armour.
“She wore her armour of calmness, courage, and strength everyday to fight the negativity, hostility, and hatred around her like a true warrior.”
Day 9 Inktober – “Throw”
For dance was her expression of freedom. Moving smoothly like a breeze, sometimes flowing vigorously like the waves. Sliding and gliding, swinging and turning. Always energetic, always having fun. Her final dance move ended with her head held high. And every time she threw the ruffles of her skirt in the air in the passion of her dance.
“What’s with those pink heels, everyday?” I ask.
To which she replied,
“Helps me deal with the darkness within.”
Her beauty, a marvel
To the artists’ eyes.
But every night,
She cried herself to sleep
Coz her love was blind.
To paint her portrait
She studied her, carefully.
Her gaze, a wildfire.
Her powdered cheeks
A gush of wind
Caused her to sneeze.
A beautiful face.
A gentle breeze.
Lightly kissed her cheek.
Then covered her blush
By blowing her soft curls
Over her face.