I am afraid of my own tears,
Afraid they may fall too fiercely,
Hot as confession,
Heavy as centuries of hidden pain,
And burn the softness from my face.
The mirror has always known me
As the obedient girl with the practiced smile,
The one whose lips bloom on command
Like prayer offered before an altar.
But what if grief becomes reckless?
What if these burning tears
Melt the silence stitched around my eyes?
What if the painted bones of my cheeks
Begin to speak
Of the old generational pain
Women inherited like heirlooms
Passed quietly from mother to daughter
In houses ruled by patriarchy
And polished into obedience?
I am afraid my sorrow will expose me.
So let them look.
Let them admire the gold at my throat,
The silk wrapped carefully around my waist,
The jeweled illusion of untouched womanhood
Arranged from hair to ankle
For their approval.
Let their starving eyes circle me slowly,
Weighing my worth
As though I were grain after harvest,
Or treasure measured against Solomon’s gold.
They do not see the trembling beneath my skin.
They do not hear the ache hidden inside my silence.
To them, I am beauty before I am human,
A body before a soul,
An offering shaped by objectification
And dressed as virtue.
Soon I will be given away
Alongside cattle, blessings, and old traditions,
A sacred thing without a voice,
A daughter taught to survive by swallowing herself whole.
And still,
I stand here afraid to cry.
