The following was submitted by SMIW contributor Aashna Malpani.
You were three months old when
They painted your nursery a bubbly pink and plastered unicorn heads all around the room.
The vibrancy would hurt your eyes.
They never understood why you cried every night, or how the magical creatures scared you shitless.
You were four years old when
They bought you your very first Barbie doll. She came with a change of clothes, a doll house, and a pony. All you’d wanted was your brother’s Nerf gun.
You were six years old when
They dressed you up in a Cinderella costume and paraded you around on Halloween night. Who wants to see a pretty little girl looking like the boy from Neverland anyway?
Peter Pan would just have to wait until everyone else was asleep.
You were nine when
They put you in ballet classes; they wanted your form to be long and slender, gentle and womanly.
Your cries for another hour at the playground, pushing Aditya and chasing Riya, were ignored.
You were 11 when
Your breasts started coming in. They taught you it was wrong to love your body
They told you to cover it up, like it was an insult to them.
They told boys you were a distraction.
You were 12 when
Daddy’s friend started frequenting the house more. Burning showers were never enough.
You were 15 when
You fancied reinventing the solar system. Drills, nails, screws, metal sheets, the whole yard was covered in your dreams.
They asked you to hand over the machinery to your brother, your twin.
You were 17 when
Your biology teacher saw you playing volleyball and licked his lips.
No one still knows why you never went into medicine.
You were 19 when
He forced himself into you. You cried and cried and cried, but your body wouldn’t move.
His Frat brothers took turns.
You were 25 when
They asked you what lengths were you willing to go to to get the job.
Your parents had to wire in rent that month.
You were 27 when
He first purpled your cheek with his fist. He started coloring you more often.
You were 30 when
You had your third abortion. Some men just don’t like girls.
You were 35 when
Your son punched little Sally. “Boys will be boys after all, wont they?”, you laughed.
You were 39 when
Everyone started asking you to enjoy the last good year of your life – you’d be undesirable soon.
You were 45 when
They promoted your apprentice over you; the company needed a fresh, young face, “no hard feelings.”
You were 57 when
They lowered your coffin into the ground, the tombstone said, “Loving Mother, Sister, Daughter, a Woman of this World.”
They all wrote speeches about how it wasn’t your time.
They wept and bled from their eyes and cursed you for being an alcoholic.
It was your fault that these noble men were crying.
Ironic, never once did anyone notice the blood dripping from their own fingertips.
About the Author:
Aashna is the owner of the blog Piss You Off Loud. When asked to describe herself, she had this quirky response:
What has two thumbs and is having an existential crisis? *crickets chirp as people leave*