Us women, we begin to fall apart
Since the day we are conceived.
We are conditioned to pick ourselves up
In silence and with grace after falling.
Our minds scream RAPE
With fathers and uncles and brothers,
Forget about strangers,
On dimly lit streets and crowded clubs.
On dimly lit streets and crowded clubs.
I haven’t written a word in a whole month
Because I was told that art is emotion and not revolution.
It is all that is aesthetic but I know I'm not.
Today, I am not sorry that this poem does not sing
Sweet adjectives and reminisce metaphors.
Tell me that art is apolitical and I shall tell you that
There is NOTHING BUT RAGE IN MY WORDS.
I WILL HOWL AND SCREAM AND ROAR BLOODY MURDER
IF THAT IS WHAT IT TAKES TO BE HEARD.
I SHALL TELL YOU THAT MY HANDS DON’T STOP SHAKING
I SHALL TELL YOU ART IS UGLY AND RAW AND UNFORGIVING.
THAT ART IS A BOOMERANG PUNCHING BAG.
THAT THIS IS MY NUCLEAR REACTION
To EVERY SINGLE NIGHT that you have roamed free
THAT THIS IS MY NUCLEAR REACTION
To EVERY SINGLE NIGHT that you have roamed free
And I lay awake, wanting to ask you why you hurt me.
And I can’t walk without wanting to collapse.
And how fear runs deeper in my veins than blood
For my little sister who does not know that
Us women, we do not have our monsters
Under our beds.
Under our beds.
Us women.
ReplyDeleteUs women, we begin to fall apart
since the day we are conceived.
We are conditioned to pick ourselves up
in silence. Grace after falling, we're told,
grace after falling.
I want to take that 'grace'
and shove it into a dustbin galaxy.
Our minds scream RAPE.
With fathers and uncles and brothers
besides strangers, on dimly lit streets,
in crowded clubs, in place after place
after place. In places we're told not to go,
in places we're told to remain.
In places we haven't discovered yet.
I haven’t written a word in a whole month
because I was told that art is emotion
and not revolution.
It is all that is aesthetic but I know
I'm not.
Today, I am not sorry that this poem does not sing
sweet adjectives and reminisce metaphors.
I am not nectar. I am not rose water. I am not a lake
on the fucking moon. I am fire
and pouring fire into your guts
will have its uses.
Today, fire is the only politics I know.
Tell me that art is apolitical and I shall tell you that
There is nothing but rage in my words.
I will howl. I will roar bloody murder
if that is what it takes to be heard.
I shall tell you that my hands don't stop shaking
I shall tell you that art is ugly and raw
and unforgiving. That art is a boomerang punching bag.
That this poem is my nuclear reaction
to every single night that you have roamed free
and I lay awake, wanting to ask you why you hurt me.
I am questions, alit.
I am impatience, aglow.
I am inextinguishable.
And still I can’t walk without wanting to collapse.
Fear runs deeper
in my veins than blood
for my little sister
who does not know that
us women, we do not have our monsters
under our beds.
This is a remarkable poem, Soumya. It is strong. It is electric. It creates both the sense of fear and strength. It creates solidarity. The boomerang punching bag was a crazily new image for me. The tenor of the poem was sharp. Was vulnerable but still sharp as hell. Thank you for sharing this. It is so strong I don't think it needs caps-lock to get its power across. Have made some suggestions in the poem only to sharpen it further. Feel free to take or leave the suggestions. Thank you so much.
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