Mother, I'm Not a Woman Anymore

From my mother’s womb, I’ve viewed
The world from her sight and her gaze
Tighten the loosen screws nothing amuses her anymore
A king nor a queen, a servant insignificant
Too minute the details of my struggles individual
Become trivial when revealed to another
Mother says, not to cry,
to weep is too weak
And fragile of a woman, I am not

If I bleed this month, my womanhood is tainted
A shrewd wind tears the skin, the agony acute
Yet mother says to zip the lips
Seal the tongue to not whisper and shun
the suffering before the world eavesdrops
A man overhears

So I twist and bend my spine to her liking
Bleach my white skin more
and hush when anguish knocks at my lungs
tell it to tip toe or the floor creaks
and I suck my distress back in before mother hears
before she awakens as I fear

Femininity she detests a bloke I become
Must I grow a beard and strip my genteel
to nakedness and paint a portrait of my flesh
be overjoyed and scream
Mother, I’m not a woman anymore!

A tear trips and falls at the edge of my eye
I ponder, she marvels
the realization dawns as
dust seals my sight
and I whisper
Mother, I’m not a woman anymore…