I used to loathe her.
Her desire to make up stories,
when the truth felt too harsh.
Her desire to play with the girls,
who didn’t want to play.
Her desire to have harmony,
when her family felt broken.
Her desire to feel whole,
when she felt wholly hollow.
Her desire to eat more,
when her body felt stuffed.
Her desire to fit in,
when she was too brown and white.
Her desire to escape,
when staying felt too much.
Her desire to buy,
when the accounts were drained.
I loathed her desire for things
she thought she couldn’t have.
I never loathed her.
– Nisha Moodley