By Ashi Singh
When I was born and as I was growing up, I’d often feel like a Barbie doll
Not because I believed that I could be anything I wanted, but because I never felt in control of my body
I felt like my parents’ little experiment
I had beautiful hair that they cut and tied as they pleased
My limbs never moved as I wished
My clothes often shined over my listless body
Every inch of my beautiful skin they inked with markers of shame
And when they had to confront the scars and damage they made, they discarded me, like, in their arms, I never played
Yes, I could be anything I wanted
But only if they bestowed upon me the mercy
For the girl who could be anything,
You could always rip off her uniform
And throw on the apron, her mother is so bitter about
How is it that I’m the giver of life and the receiver of my father’s most bitter words?
Words that pierce through my soul — enough to make me fall to the floor, but never enough for me to be buried in it?
Why is it that my beauty must be concealed but my pepper spray always brandished?
Why is it that I’m given the responsibility of sustaining this alleged beauty but also protecting it?
I’m not docile to a culture that made me this petty and bitter
I’m disdainful towards the culture that made me feel most like a woman when I was harassed by two men on a bike
Excitement glistening through their lustful eyes
Ready to absolutely shatter the belief of the girl in her uniform, school bag on her shoulders and an economics test in two hours