I stood at the door of my mother,
My hands touching the light,
And the shadows coating my skin,
My breasts and my thighs,
My sighs and cries,
Walking in the streets,
With a veil across my face,
And a knife in my wrist,
While the wolves howl,
For what I have between my legs,
I've never prayed,
To be cursed as a daughter,
To be blamed for a fruit,
Forbidden and lusted,
Yet, here I am,
I will die untouched,
Or I will live corrupted,
By strangers' desires,
And sweetened tongues,
Alas, I shall remain a woman.
Aina Izzah
