They crowned me maiden-marked with no coronet,
No rite, no reckoning, no alphabet.
From chalk to chastity, the shift was swift
A girl unasked, yet forced to drift.
Uncles morphed to bro, aunties to sis,
As if age could be erased by this.
The same mouths that once fed me lore
Now ask, “When will your parents unlock the door?”
From half-pan hymns to full-pan chains,
From innocence to encoded stains.
From Ma’s lap to lone lamp-light,
From lullabies to legal fright.
They speak of the binding rite, not of mind,
Of bridal veils, not truths unlined.
They offer vows, not volition,
As if my body’s their admission.
Some changes chisel, some changes choke,
Some stitch your soul, some slit the cloak.
Some come like guests with garlanded grace,
Some barge in, branding your face.
But I
I ink my ache in harf and flame,
I ritualize what they rename.
I rhyme the rupture, sanctify shame,
I forge a scroll they cannot tame.
So let them call me maiden-marked, miss,
I’ll answer with a serpent hiss.
For I am not what they decree
I’m carticity, not casualty.
This poem confronts the cultural conditioning that marks girls with roles before they’re ready, before they’re asked. It critiques the performative shift from childhood to womanhood, where identity is overwritten by ritual, and autonomy is traded for expectation. It’s a declaration of self-authorship — a refusal to be renamed, repackaged, or reduced.
