Immediate identities

Image © ParashforPeople

You don’t tell me who I am,

well you could, you do actually,

but not for me.

It might be for others, the world,

for yourself, but not for me.

You don’t tell me Yakub has

a place to pray, he probably prays

inside a lover’s heart, a place you

don’t know exists, while you

power your way up-to glory,

a glory that they define to restore

your ego, yet you don’t tell

others what to do, like you’re being told to…

Don’t tell me my daughter’s fondness

for ladies is a symptom of impairment

you don’t know what caress

looks like; she probably rests in

an arm that comforts her and

never betrays with violence,

an arm that counts stars with her

when the world is still.

You don’t tell him to man up.

stop acting on impulse of

insecurity and designing logic

to justify, you can let things be

let him take his course

and write his story, he probably

does not need a narration or

a translation you seek to offer

out of uneasiness.

You don’t tell me you’re tempted

when you look at the curves I

candidly expose for my young lovers

to admire, for myself to feel gorgeous

I am not obliged to offer you- me!

You don’t tell me the meaning of threat

I am not the whore you want me to

be… While the world fumbles to

stand upright on its knees, and its

glorious beings take everything

they have known to be closer to hope

and bets them on their dreams.

You don’t get to tell us who we are,

who we should be, who we should

avoid being.

For us to fly -

you never will hold the bridle!