At six you are small. You don't make a fuss. You obey your guardians and adhere to their rules. At nine you know what you want. But you don’t get it. At twelve you make a friend who is always mean to you. He plays with your pouch and throws your pencils in the dustbin. Your best friend tells you that he does it because he likes you. You like him too but know you're not mean to him. At thirteen you raise your hand so you can help the teacher carry the notebooks to the staff room. But she picks two boys instead. You are a fifty year old tree withstanding storms and winds that took babies away and yet you cannot carry the notebooks to the second floor staff room. At fourteen in the football court, you miss just one goal and you're never shortlisted to play anymore. At fifteen you learn the word patriarchy and you don't stop repeating it. You learn its meaning and you know that this is how it works. The way your tongue rolls back when you say it leaves you feeling like it is something you would want to smash. At fifteen you also learn the word feminism but you think it means hating men so you don't say it. Sometime later you research it and then you scream it out loud. You chant it as if your life depends on it. It suddenly appears in cursive on each and every notebook that you own. All of it is tedious - growing up but with the policing with elders around you waiting to force you to wear maturity on your shoulders while your brother walks naked. With all the "you're not supposed to'’s fed into your brain as if it's something you'll be asked on the exam the next day, at eighteen you sit to write this poem and it writes itself. The way horses lose control when their reins are held loosely, you lose your control over this poem. An ode to weak girls, it titles itself. you strike the 'weak' off.
- Divyanshi Dash, Bharati College
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