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Get Published on Female First
She sat on her bed,
her collar and cuffs drenched
in salty, warm tears.
Facing the shrine, she begged
God over and over again
to kill her and send
her to hell because
that was all she deserved.
Everything she did was wrong,
any proper daughter would know.
Any proper daughter wouldn't have to be told,
she'd ask how she could help.
"Mummy, Hu tamne Kai karvaa laagu?"
but no, this daughter has to be told
and never does any of the housework
happily; not like Dipa.
She begged and blew her tears from her lips,
despising herself for crying,
thumping herself hard
in the brief moments she could stop
crying: that was what she deserved.
I was eight. Another day at school.
Everyone had to draw
a picture of themselves
and write the month and date
of their birthday.
Clint had coloured himself yellow,
but he was a November like me,
so it was ok.
Christopher had drawn himself
in school uniform and wanted a new
piece of paper to draw himself
in a football shirt.
" Miss, no, don't give him more paper. It’s not fair. Don't copy me."
"I'm not copying you".
Mine was the best picture,
I was brown-skinned with a blue tie,
a long black plait and a grey jumper.
My shirt was white -
cleverly outlined
in black crayon.
The teacher was telling another boy
how good his drawing was.
"You're not really brown-skinned are you, Anita?" she told me.
There was no other suitable shade
and I knew the flesh-coloured crayon,
pink or Clint's yellow was much more
not like my skin than the brown.
It didn't matter; in school, I knew who I was.
On the playground, the dinner ladies coaxed
Gemma into asking me
to play with them. I joined in,
but I didn't need to.
I didn't know I was alone.
I had no concept of friendship.
I was happy.
Gemma wasn't a nice girl anyway;
she'd tell lies about other girls behind their backs.
She used to laugh at me because I found cheaper Nutella in Bailey's,
and she called me a tramp
behind her hand
with a glowing smile.
I could see that I wasn't like her.
I wasn't two different people;
I was always me.
It's just that my mother hadn't a clue
that I was a good girl.
At twenty, I dreamt
I was looking down at my daughter
and cupped her face lovingly in my hands.
Simultaneously, I felt warm hands
on my own cheeks.
I had to love myself because nobody else would.
My first suicide attempt: I was nine.
Tagged in Anita Parmar