We ode to Sita for having the courage
To plunge into the fire to prove her innocence
Her orange sari trapped in the red and yellow flames
The smoke engulfing her voice,
The words unsaid killed in her throat.
Why do we not question the need to determine her "purity"?
Why do we not question the need for her exile?
Maybe myths are not that far from reality.
The newlywed bride burned alive.
The dowry demands shut her mouth tight.
The smoke of people's words put on her a price.
And if she was a goddess and if there's a heaven,
If the story they say is true,
Maybe we are nothing but a bunch of
Fallen fairies and broken kingdoms.
Yes, I am a princess.
I wear a pink ball gown.
My high heels hold me high as the tiara sides on my head.
But I am not your princess.
I am not your snow-white.
My high heels are perfect to make a hole down your throat.
My tiara is my boomerang.
The pink in my gown, or the black in my jeans
Is as beautiful as any other colour,
Snow-white or chocolate-brown.
I am a princess. But I don't need you to be my prince.
I don't need to prove my purity, nor do I need you as my saviour.
Every flaw you see
Is just another part of my beauty.
So, don't be disappointed that we are not the perfect princesses
Be scared cause we are capable
Of writing more than
Your fucking stereotypical fairy tales.
We are the romance
Of the two not-so-star-crossed lovers.
We are the protagonists
With more than just hour glassed bodies
And with beautiful character arcs.
We are the tragedy
Of the staged play on the wooden caricatures
Based on society's deepest flaws.
We are more than stories of
One-dimensional heroes with a saviour complex.
We have lost.
We have fought.
We have bled.
YOU ARE READING
Unheard || Poems
Poetry"for the fear of being unheard, i don't cry, i bleed on paper." ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- A bunch of long poems from the heart of an anxious, sleep deprived and amatuer sixteen year old...
