When You Ask Me Where I’m Going

by Jasmin Kaur

friday. you stumble upon a mirror. but before you can escape you catch your eye on a glimmer of light. there is something glowing just beneath the surface of the being before you.

i’m not here to be your example of the good girl until i’m your warning sign for the wayward one

he tells me he doesn’t care about politics and i wonder if he can see the political boundaries on my body—the conflict zones between my shoulder blades. the border built between my tongue and me. the partition carved into my palms. all the ways in which it is political for me to live.

the next time you ask me where i’m going please recall that i am three parts indecision and one part reckless abandon

when they throw the word feminist at you like a fist against your ribs like an aged curse like your mother’s shame pry it from their fingers and weave it into your tongue drape it across your skin or abandon it altogether but remember that this weapon is yours to use however it is you please.

i have come to fear my lack of answers far less than humans who claim to have them all.

in the end, it is not the smoke that we all suffocate on but the silence

i ask why you come to me with honey-sweet words and you remind me that last week, i told you i was breaking. you think that maybe just maybe something sticky could help put my pieces back together