Avarana

There were parts of her that were never her own.

A diaphanous mucosal tissue, returned broken and bloodied. A hollow cavity enveloping a home.

A name.

She conceived of herself, that these parts were made to be given, were happily given as a crown for god. And men.

She of rib and bone and grit had learnt how to give all the pieces of herself from Amma whose back now slumped forward with the weight, as if somebody had slipped her vertebral column out whole, she was imagined without spine.

They did not see the uniform composition; the rod stacked up against her, inside her. The shape of her was already written.

An interloper in her own story and skin.