Jannatul Naeem Tasmiah

My brittle nails become the sharpest knife Under the light of obscure scrutiny

“The roads are too clean. The sun is too bright,” she thought.

People, places, things  I do not know how I remember 

Being a woman comes to me naturally If not me, then who? I was never asked to be one I was never asked to cook

I wonder where God sits in that tower. I wonder whose cries are louder.