Releasing ancestral pain,
From the generations of women that came before me,
Is like breaking down boulders,
One stone at a time, every rock charged up like fire,
Carrying emotional torment, unloving mothers and husbands,
bodies that are not their own, birthing children at the expense of their own skin,
losing education, losing humility,
there is no relation left with yourself when they enter relationships,
only hips to birth more,
no sense of self, no voice of yours left.
no screaming left inside of you when they are done,
rape, beatings, unloving mothers, dissapointment, unfulfilled expectations,
girls wanting to be women too soon, and women who wish they had their childhood back,
Skin, the most honorable gift, also torn down, despised, not fair enough, not dark enough,
too loud for the men, yet too quiet for the bitches,
we have cheaters, child molestors, liars,
we have children living lies because the bastards could never see beyond their own truths,
could never say anything honestly,
no: blackmail, upon judgement, upon starvation
hypocrites,
who tell children to cover up but could not see that they themselves have no ownership of their own identity,
we have hijabs that billow in the wind, not protecting you from modesty,
only the black hearts that are hidden so kindly, by the type of scarf you put on,
Prayers, a public ritual, not for God,
only the people, only others who will smile with crooked teeth,
and curse them with magic under the same tongue they sing Bismillah off of,
We live in troublesome times,
Our own wombs can be heard squealing,
We all are plagued with diseases of the womb,
and noone seems to question why,
Our core, our centre being attacked,
We should be aware of what we let into our spaces,
Our sacred centres, our hearts, our homes,
Our divine selves, we are love,
Fuck we are made from light,
So now,
Imagine all that,
All that burning inside,
every cell inside of you carrying generation upon generation of pain,
epigenetics ready to protect you from what you have not even yet felt,
the turmoil, the rage,
imagine attempting to release it,
I have flooded my bed more times this past century then any child should have to go through,
But the tears are still not enough,
I have bled more blood, given my heart to people who have only cursed me more,
Let my body be painted in marks by women who call themselves mothers,
They call it punishment, I call it art,
No bodily harm will be worse then the words struck on me,
Poetry from the damned,
Like sword flung onto a child,
I am patient,
By God, I am patient,
the Razaks always bleed into their graves,
and we always weep over their headstones,
we do wudu it seems only to wash the pain,
never to be pure,
internal cleansing of emotional harm is a process that I am undergoing,
and I am slowly beginning to see the light again,
rip after rip on the same wound,
slowly,
I am learning to forgive
its nothing personal,
its just Ancestral Pain