Note from the author: This poem portrays women as resilient yet delicate beings, shaped by societal expectations and familial dynamics. The poem embraces the imperfections of womanhood. I want to ask to all the readers what do you want to tell the woman of your age?

Women of my age are made of rice soaked in water;

they stick together before the sunlight kills their unity.

So they stay covered in misogyny and patches of consent 

that look like stitched pieces of fabric

cut out off the females' clothes in their family.

They are mothers memorizing 

their child's favourite street food

they are wives orchestrating

their husbands' emotions from the shape of their beard:

a frown is a moustache unshaved,

a teardrop is a full-grown beard,

a smile is a dimple found

on their clean-shaven easel;

Women of my age are daughters.

they are washing dishes until

the soap's smell rubs away the dirt

of hard work on their hands

they are drying their hair

under the stern stare of their siblings

who are trying to learn

the difference between their body shape 

and their body's existence;

Women of my age are in love,

they weave their boyfriend's name

in the lines on their hands

and write poetry to soothe their own misunderstanding of love;

They subtly whisper their girlfriend's names

in their sneeze, wishing someone would say "bless you" 

and then, their love wouldn't seem like a crime;

Women of my age are learning to walk on this soil,

allowing their feet to sink but not their shoulders

because women of my age, they

carry each other on their shoulders,

a bit closer to the sky, a bit away from the fire

eons faster towards freedom;

Women of my age now know

that the earth is a woman, green and blue

and on her surface, 

all of us are allowed to be halves, quarters if not full;

imperfect and loved.