From a very young age, I have seen the man of the house
Fighting, shouting, demanding and swearing
And oftentimes he’d paint my mother's face
Her soft wheatish-skin hued in the crimson of his rough finger prints
She'd just shed two apologetic tears,
never let anyone know about it.
I used to wonder,
Was that attachment of years that made her accept it quietly?
Years later, I got married and the man of MY house,
Is interested in baring my body before we bared our souls to each other
Every evening, he thrusts me on the bed,
For him I am a platter of meat and bones garnished with fresh youth
And without even thinking, I spread my legs apart
Smiling, I wake him up every morning
But when he looks into my eyes, why does it feel like looking at my rapist in the face?
Last night I went to him ,courage woven in words and said he shouldn't ruffle me without my consent
His thoughtless hand rashed in my hair, pulling courage out of every word I said
Yes… I just shed two apologetic tears and didn't let anyone know about it.
Me, my mother, my mother's mother and one million seven thousand three hundred something women like us,
Have been fed on the thought that if you don't please “your man”,
He has the right to claim
“Talaq Talaq Talaq”
And the institution of your wedlock will come crumbling down and
This man of your house will sent you to exile from his house that you made home
And you will have to live the rest of your life like a refugee.
And now I know,