War Zone
it was the third day of summer
i was ten years old
alone and scared
i looked down
in silence, in shock
at the massacre between my legs
a war zone
between womanhood and my youth
my youth lost
in a moment's time
in a habitual act
i still cringe at the day
the smell of my youth dying
it's face, smashed against my thighs
dead and i alone
wait for someone to help me
retrieve the pieces
flushed away
retrieve the day
where i was free from this responsibility
which comes with adulthood
at an age where i was still a child
thoughts of children flooded me
scared me because i was dead
and i awoke a different person
a woman emerging from a small frame
a frame shivering and angry
at an event which is celebrated
like a battle
where so many had died
and now, we celebrate the war
the death
like we celebrate the death of my youth
where so much freedom died
my carefree was flushed
my mirror had become a canvas
for a distorted image of myself
which i would add a piece
of my puzzled womanhood
day by day by day
and i celebrate
the rebirth of my freedom
in the shattered glass of my lost youth
of the war between my legs
which i was destined to fight
i no longer grasp for the child i let go
but i progress into my frame
of a woman
� neda hakimi
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