My Father named me after,
The power of the God he believes in.
Yet, soon
I became his power.
So, my morning yawns became fragments
Of his strength
As he calls out my name
And gently tells me to wake up:

It’s time,

He says.
My name means the power of the universe,
And sometimes
I believe it too,
Urging myself to remember it.
Yet, my memory is a deceitful ally
That looks gleefully
As I fall face first into the sandpit of self doubt.

I start

To fall deeper
And deeper
Until all that’s left around me
Is sand and thistle
That suffocates each cell inside me,
And makes every synapse of my body
Regret the space it’s taking.
They say,
Power is in


Then how is it that each time I listen,
To what others have to say
About me,
My name loses it’s relevance.
They tell me,
I am too bold with my words,
I am too naive with my choices,
I am too proud with my thoughts.
I think

To myself

That I wear my words and choices and thoughts
As an armour against their validation,
As the mini skirt their eyes are too ‘purified’ to see me wearing,
As the pantsuit that they dread their sons will answer to.
I want to tell them that my father named his daughter
After the power of God
And I am his strength.

So the next time they tell me this,
I use this power to light the corners of
The pit of affliction and doubt
I had fallen into,
And I solemnly voice the vibration
Inside the long suppressed cells and synapses,
To tell them:
It’s me who knows the meaning of my name

And not them.


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