Bedtime stories
recounted repeatedly
probably the same every night
swirled in my brain
with atoms and chemicals
in the hypothalamus
So I’d wake up
more feminine than before
and daintier by the day
Women narrated the same tales
of damsels in distress
because that is what they knew-
to listen
to wait
to be soft
to evade danger that develops from
speaking up
So when I grew up to be self-sufficient
and travel worlds and oceans alone
and speak up against the patriarchal views of my grandfather
and entitled behaviours of my father,
‘You are a brat’ my aunt would say;
brat for thinking intangentially
and mother would look at every opportunity
as a potential threat
just as they were wired to
Because stories recounted to them
were always tragic mishaps
So now when I ask for new stories
and they don’t have any,
I tell them to look at me long and hard
And then I take a hard look at myself
in the mirror
I am the bedtime story, I say
That I will recount to the dainty girl
who is also strong
Who listens so she can respond
Who is soft but her convictions are not so soft
Who is her own fable
her own story
her own art
her own moral.