Silk Cages

Whose hands tightened the nuts that choked me all

were ancestors hanging on the sanctuary wall.

I tasted your approval, standing proud and tall,

and loved the tales you'd written in the past,

till I acknowledged myself so vast.

"Good daughters," you hissed, "don't resist."

Look how your love became a trap.

Remember the night you braided my hair slick?

Marry him. The voice in the air so thick.

I adored the silk you called "my fate"—

a red cage stitched with silent jade.

The pendant around my neck

burns, no wonder, like heck.

Mother, I recall your quivering thread,

buried poems under the marriage bed.

Mama, you stitched me shut,

a silk pouch for an emerald in rut.

Your rules ingrained, rigid and intense:

"Silence is virtue, endurance is grace."

"Stop, don't fly. Know your place."

You did it for the validation game,

to grace the clan's reputed name.

I abhorred your silence, sour as guilt,

how you sugar-coated the cage you built.

I married him, the one you select,

drowning in vows I did not elect.

You knew the weight, the unheard plea,

and still dragged me into that sea.

You were the victim who had the key,

you coward, who never followed her gut.

Your silence was the brick

that built my prison thick.

I took the knife you taught me to hold

against the fish, the meat—standing bold.

At every point where you shook,

watch me cut the ancient crook.

Myself, Alesha Khan, a native of Shujabad, Pakistan, yearning to be heard. With each stroke of the pen, I weave a tale that reflects the depths of my heart, a canvas painted with the hues of my experiences. As an award-winning writer in literary competitions, I am a storyteller, a weaver of words, dedicated to sharing my vision with the world.