I learned that my skin
was a commodity,
when blood glistened
on my scuffed-up knees.
I had ribbons in my hair,
my favorite doll tucked
beneath my arm,
fireflies sparkling in my eyes.
back when there was purity,
to a time where my heart shone
brighter than the skirt draping my legs,
where my only worry was what
crayons I wanted to use.
my mother urged me to cover up
before my uncle stopped by,
choosing denim and sleeves,
ignoring the flux of summer sun.
I knew then what I know now:
to be a woman,
is to be an object of desire,
a symbol placed on display,
to mitigate my brain for
frills of satin and linen.
to create yet confine—
delicate, drowsy, subdued,
forever labeled a prude.
only loved when I'm
calcified
and nude.
YOU ARE READING
Pomegranate
PoetryPomegranate is a collection of what it feels like to be a woman. There are themes tied to growing up, generational traumas, history, ache, love, and heartbreak. There's dialogue within the matriarchy, if only you listen, and let it in.
