Great things are not done by impulse, but by a series of small things brought together – Vincent Van Gogh

The child in Her

She lay curled on her bed,

Wrapped in her teddy bear blanket, now threadbare.

Tears streaming down her cheeks, choking.

Her fist a ball in her mouth.

 

Tormented by the prospects of her future.

She did not want to marry a doctor,

She wanted to study, to be a fighter pilot,

To fly the sky in search of her soul.

 

She did not want the burden of docility,

The demur demeanor were her loathing,

The nosepin, red dot, thick kajal around her eyes,

She did not want to be her mother.

 

She dreamed of a wearing a pant, with its perfectly ironed crease,

A shirt tight against her breast,

Stripes on her shoulders,

She was meant to ravage the man’s world.

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