When the Candles Went Out

(She Wished the World Doom)

She is born and placed on a blushed, rosy blanket
with her initials carved within its seams.
Her parents’ eyes drop diamond-like tears
that rest on the forehead of their baby’s dreams.
She turns her head to witness a vast world full of life —
Sitting before her therapist, she now wishes she'd never been alive.

A date in October is slashed with a red checkmark on the family calendar.
She unwraps a gift meant for children five and above —
a wooden doll with hair just like hers.
Her older brother lifts her up to blow out the strawberry-jam cake, five candles.
Now she stands before the police, staring at her blood-stained sandals.

Another checkmark opens the heavy doors
to the day she becomes ten more than five.
Her parents lay out a white dress spun from thread that almost seems alive.
Eyes gleaming, she twirls like a water lily along a flowing riverbed.
Now she stands in court, staring at that same dress —
but now is soaked in shades of red.

Had she known the world was a see-through veil that hides the truth,
Had she known that wrinkled white and red dress marked the end of her youth,
Had she known he saw her as a lonely wooden toy —
She might have asked the mirror
why she wasn’t born a boy.

They argued like animals,
fighting over the last piece of grain on the floor.
The other side blamed her
for the forbidden bare skin she owned.
Perhaps they forgot —
he tore that very skin,
along with her dignity,
in that room.
Standing at the edge of the roof,
She now wishes the world doom.

My name is Ifrah Naaz and I am 16 years old, a junior in high school. I've always been an avid writer and mostly aim to write emotional pieces, specifically those that leave something lingering once you've finished reading. I write due to a lot of reasons, one of them is impact. I want my writing to help others feel something, invoke emotions that perhaps one was never aware of or emotions that were suppressed. Humans are complicated creatures but I think feelings are something that can be and at the same time, cannot be put into words. My writing style is for the feelings of the people who suffer quietly, the women that are left alone, the people who fail to protect them. I write for those women.