They used to say that women are made up of sugar, spice and everything nice
but they seem to have forgotten that I’m a woman too.
There isn’t an ounce of sweetness in me –
for I was born in a sweltering hot February afternoon
to parents who never desired me in the first place.
I do not ooze sugar when I smile
nor am I in possession of honey-coated words
to court the woman that I love.
I’m more like burnt sugar,
bitter and ash-like,
an existence that you’d be better without.
Spice seems like something mild and exotic to be used on me –
I’m not a case of tantalising cinnamon rolls nor am I the cayenne pepper that one sprinkles generously for its health benefits.
I’m more like the invisible tiny green pepper hiding in your meal,
completely hidden from view and only felt when you accidentally take a bite out of me.
That’s how I really am to be honest –
my bite never accompanies my bark;
I’m there but completely unseen –
my existence damned to hell by those who felt my presence.
Nice is a crime that I’ve been accused of once too often,
to an extent that it feels cheap to me at the moment.
I’m not the nice, sunny summer breeze that you get on the beach side;
I’m the torrid thunderstorm that violently consumes you out of nowhere
and then spits you out like nothing.
I’m the ugly mess of a tornado that everyone seems to gawk at in awe from a distance
but scampers around like mindless animals when I get close enough to anyone.
I’m overbearing to all, and loved by none.
Anatomically I seem to have all that’s needed to be a woman
yet all the labels and words used to describe them seems to be ill fitting for me.
Maybe my parents was right for not wanting me –
maybe I am to be invisible after all.
I’m simply there to occupy space.
I’m not sugar, spice and everything nice –
I’m salt, bitter and everything horribly imaginable alive.