It’s not that I don’t see through your facade.
It’s the flimsiest thing I have ever seen.
The problem is that I was raised on silence.
Raised to bite back my truths
like some pill I have to keep in my system to stay alive.
Raised to keep my voice low
as if its volume is a threat to world peace.
Raised to take blames for crimes
I would never think of committing.
I have been at pews and listened for years
to how being a victim is virtuous.
It’s not that I don’t see through the false colours you’re wearing.
I am just not the sort of girl to make you uncomfortable
so I pocket my truths and dish them out
in petty portions at meal tables.
When next you think of selling me this faux version
of yourself that you are soul-bent on peddling,
remember that I see through it all.
The thoughts that you table as jokes.
The half dressed aggressions…
I have peeped into your mind all those evenings
and it’s definitely a warped place.
Learn to do better.
Maybe own up to your traumas and fall
back and learn how to wear the colour of modesty
that you so much love to advertise.