Not for the first time, I sit and wonder
what it would be like—
to be born in a world, or at least a home,
where women were simply
equal.

Where "allowed to work"
was never said.
Where mothers who work
don't carry the whole house
on tired, unthanked shoulders.

Where Sundays are soft for everyone,
where the sun rises in the east
for every single one of us.
Where daughters don’t have to
run interference,
smooth storms that were never theirs.

Where whoever wakes first
makes the morning tea,
no matter the hands or the name.
Where girls choose their clothes
like boys do,
with no second skin of shame.

Where words like feminist
would be meaningless—
because fairness would be breathing,
not battling.

But sadly, here we are.
Still told,
"men will be men,"
still watching women reduced
to a teacup on the table.

Still.
Just close your eyes.
Imagine:
a world where I would not
hate being born a girl.
A world
where things
would simply—
be.

I am stuck in a version of life
that used to fit like skin
but now drapes heavy
like fabric soaked in something I can’t wash out.

Every decision I made
was loud with purpose,
each one a small explosion
meant to prove I was moving,
meant to keep me upright.

Now the walls lean in.
They don’t ask questions.
They press.
They stay.
They remind me that stillness
can become suffocating
if you sit in it long enough.

I am stuck in a version of life
that used to fit like skin
but now drapes heavy
like fabric soaked in something I can’t wash out.

Every decision I made
was loud with purpose,
each one a small explosion
meant to prove I was moving,
meant to keep me upright.
But I lost track
of what I was chasing.

Now the walls lean in.
They don’t ask questions.
They press.
They stay.

And now the days
blur into each other
like sleep I can’t feel,
like time I forgot to notice,
like I’m watching everything
from somewhere far beneath myself.

The map in my hands shows the roads, but none of them tell me where to stand.

I move through moments, tracing the edges, never the center.

A narrative flows around me, and I hesitate — turn the page, or linger in the whitespace?

Others move seamlessly, chapter to chapter, their pages numbered, their purpose clear.

I am a note in the margins, significant, yet separate.

Do I belong in these lines? Was I ever meant to be here? Or am I just an observer, reading a story that was never mine?

I sit in the corner,
where the world moves past me.

I laugh, I nod,
but in the spaces between,
I wonder if I’m actually here
or just an echo.

I turn small things into lifelines,
and then—just like that—they fade.

People don’t leave loudly,
just quietly, subtly,
like a book set down
and never picked up again.

Maybe that’s fine.
Maybe that’s just how it is.
A quiet, familiar tune,
played on the world’s smallest violin.
Not loud enough to stop anyone,
but always playing.

Why do you do this?  
Twist my choices until they vanish,  
your words, soft but cruel, carving into my flesh,  
each one deeper, more suffocating than the last.  
You blackmail me with your pain,  
threats hanging like nooses,
slowly tightening around my neck.  
You said you’d end everything,  
if I didn’t surrender to your darkness.  
Do you even see me,  
not as your shattered reflection,  
but as someone slowly being erased,  
drowning in a life I can’t escape?  
I know you're sinking,  
but why drag me down with you,  
burying me beneath your weight?  
I need you to hear me—  
to release me before I’m lost entirely,  
because if you can’t,  
I’ll break, and you’ll have killed me too.