My First God and My Last Executioner
You gave me life
and yes, I suppose that means you believe
you can take it back.
Between you and me,
that’s fine.
It’s the law of the house, isn’t it?
Your rules, your breath, your name,
and me, a borrowed thing
you could return whenever I started sounding
too much like myself.
But before you do,
I want to tell you something,
and please, don’t interrupt.
I know you hate it when I speak too much,
when I speak at all.
You see, I never asked to be a piece
in your picture-perfect puzzle.
You and Mother kept shaping me
into something that would fit,
smaller, smoother, quieter.
And for a while, I tried.
I tried so hard my bones bent
into the shape of your pride.
But the thing is,
you gave me life,
not obedience.
You gave me a voice,
not a script.
And I know that’s what angers you now,
that I didn’t wait for your cue,
didn’t follow the scene
you rehearsed so carefully
for the neighbors, the relatives,
the world outside the front gate.
You said action,
but I didn’t move.
I stood there,
and you called that rebellion.
But I was only breathing
in my own rhythm for once.
And now here we are,
you and me,
this room so small
and your hand so steady.
And I keep thinking
you really did love me once, didn’t you?
Even if it was the version
you made in your head.
Even if that love had rules.
I won’t beg.
Not because I’m brave, I’m not,
but because there’s nothing left to ask for.
I didn’t sin, Father.
I just chose.
And somehow,
that became the greatest crime
in this house of honour.
If you do this,
just know,
I forgive you.
Not because you deserve it,
but because I refuse
to die carrying your hate.
And when they ask you later,
tell them I didn’t scream.
Tell them I looked you in the eye,
the way you taught me to
when speaking the truth.
Tell them I was your daughter,
until the very last breath,
and that you were my first god,
and my last executioner.
I died, not because I strayed,
but because you could not bear
the sound of a woman
learning to speak her own name.
You called it discipline.
They’ll call it honour.
But Father,
it was only fear,
and it wore your face.
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