I am a person.

And I will silence nothing
at the risk of losing sight of me.

Not again. Not ever.

I am a person.
And I had to earn it.

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘭𝘺...

I had to find out on my own
that I never even learned it.

Never knew that it existed,
let alone that I deserved it.

Never knew that there was more
beyond how others would observe it.

Left to tear apart the parts of me
that weren't ******* perfect.

Believed my body and it's ***
exist to only be of service.

That in the eyes of others is
where the sum of all my worth is.

...𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘴?

Every time I showed a piece of me
my mother ******* burned it.

Or a lover would reverse it.

Weaponizing all my flaws
to take it all and ******* turn it...

& suddenly my 𝘀𝗲𝗻𝘀𝗶𝘁𝗶𝘃𝗶𝘁𝘆's
where all of the concern is.

...𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘤𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘴 𝘪𝘯, 𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘵?

Cause when I speak,
the space it takes
tends to be a trigger.

Words of truth fill up the room
and press down on their fingers.

Gripping on their guns,
like they'll be killed if they consider.

That my pain is not to blame
for them looking in the mirror.

That it doesnt make them smaller
if my audience gets bigger.

That being seen for all my story
doesn't place them in the center.

That the one who holds the canvas
paints the story they'll deliver.

& the child inside me paints
with the pain that is within her.

Dipping her brush into
all the people who've dismissed her.

Covering the canvas
with sad sounds of silver.

Grief glitters gold
and silently shimmers.

The colour of ****, thick
and all too familiar.

The truth can be seen
when the sun hits the picture.

It catches the light
and the colours all kiss her.

I stand strong beside her.

It took a long time to find her.

𝗪𝗲 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗮 𝗽𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗼𝗻.

And we will silence nothing
at the risk of losing sight of us.

. . .

𝑺𝒐 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒂𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅
𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒃𝒍𝒖𝒏𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒂𝒓𝒄𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒄
𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏,
𝒏𝒐 𝒓𝒆𝒈𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒖𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒄 -
𝒘𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕'𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒊𝒄.

𝐈 𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐈 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜.

𝑷𝒐𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒕 𝒖𝒏𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒔
𝒊𝒔 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈.

. . .

꧁꧂

mica light • poetry

In the peak summer season, on a bright blue morning,
I saw 2 worlds as I travelled to my calling.
I saw a man sitting dehydrated in front of the sparkling blue lake,
And a man defecating right beside the cow dung cake.

I saw an ambulance sitting idly by,
And a son driving his sick father, unable to let out a cry.
I saw a girl with her head out the sunroof, enjoying the cool summer breeze,
And a little kid trying to hold down his kaccha house, down on the ground scraping his knees.

I saw a woman tending to the roadside hedge,
And another throwing an empty bottle at its edge.
I saw a bungalow’s water tank leaking,
And a man straining gutter water that was positively reeking.

I saw 2 worlds,
One with a necklace of stones and one made of pearls.
Under that same bright blue sky,
I saw 2 worlds - one that waited to be buried and one that longed to fly.