They didn’t tell me growing up was nurturing houseplants of responsibilities and often failing to water them because you are binge-watching a DVD of nostalgia on nights when loneliness sublets you it’s house. They didn’t tell me growing up was walking in circles in my room past midnight trying to remember the face of my imaginary friend. Dimming in my mind in slow motion like the night mode of my phone.
Daughters of History
History is overcrowded with women who were harmonies,
Cadencing with the delicacy of vulnerable melodies.
Your ancestors were crystal chandeliers and exquisite geodes,
Fragility dribbling from edges and nodes.
She camouflaged under the spiral of books,
Caging the brutality and inequality in the lines of a notebook.
She told, girls possess the cells of storm and bravery,
Undefined valour, immeasurable kindness was their geometry.