When she was born
Her relatives spat on the ground,
Called her mother a witch
And said "The only thing she's good for is dowry".

By 6 years old
She understood what being a girl meant;
Be still and quiet
Your opinion is irrelevant .

At 11 she watched her brothers go to school
As she sat in the kitchen,
Doing 'the work of a woman',
With tears of longing streaming down her face.

At 17, she slept with a man who was 67
Living with the cruel hand she'd been dealt;
How did she raise 2 children
When she was still a child herself?

At 35, no longer a child bride
She was replaced,
With a girl that had not
Even come of age.

She held the young woman
And dried her tears.
She understood her sorrow
She had felt it for years.

But this was her destiny,
Her role from birth.
To be the silent weeper,
The cleaner, the mother,
The lover; who would never know Love.

At 65 she's died,
Buried next to a man she never even knew.
Not a single male cries,
Her funeral attended by few.

So why the abuse?
Why so much pain?
Why raise such a brave soul in vain?

One rebellious voice cries,
With tears streaming down her face
"If only she were male!"
She looks to me and says

"You wish to know,
why she could have had no joy?
The answer is simple
They wanted a boy"

For dinner, you made asparagus and pork chops,
my favourite combination.

Do moms have a sixth sense when they know that something bad is going to happen?

You smiled and said, "I made your favourite."

I said, "I'm going to miss this."

But you didn't understand,
you thought I meant that there weren't asparagus left to cook for tomorrow, so you said "Sweetie, don't worry, I can make some more for dinner tomorrow."



I wonder if you and dad can finish food for three people,
when there will only be two people at the table.

"she's just a friend"

but we started there as well.

I know you're confused.
You wonder how it could go from "i love you" to "i don't care" in just one day.
Somehow, between the lines of of his "sweet dreams" and "goodbye"
you became one of his forgotten dreams.

Oh, and it breaks my heart more
to know that you spent all your time praying to God, if there is one
to take you back in time,
and you prayed really hard that day
even if you don't consider yourself religious.
Because you were lost and broken, so maybe God will take pity on you,
even just once.

You and I both know that deep within that broken self of yours,
it is being held by a sliver of hope.
That's why you didn't crumble.

You were taken aback so much,
that you didn't even cry.
You just lied on your bed, staring into the darkness that is engulfing you, like a mother cradling her child.
If monsters were real, you hoped that they come and get you that night.
But they didn't.
So you woke up in the morning, feeling nothing.
You were glad you had a reason to skip school that day.

And you finally cried,
as if your tears finally realized you needed to let out the pain.
You took three showers that day,
only because your mom caught you crying in your room.

Oh and I beg you, don't put that blade on your skin.
And I know you remembered how you promised to him that you wouldn't hurt yourself.
So you kept your promise,
you drew flowers on your wrists instead.

But it has to get better right?
You're going to run out of tears soon.

So this is why this letter is made,
letting you know that  poets write their pain on a paper,
not on their skin.