The Enigma I call Emancipation

Take example, 12 years back.

Where my tender 4 year-old feet 

pulsated with every step,

black sidewalk and tango at last.

Arms stretched.

Sweat seeping through my beloved 

pink tee.

   Pink.

      A monogmy.

  Pink.

      A colour, a memory.

Take example, 10 years back.

Basement and me.

The women I call, mother 

Mother and me.

6 blows to the calf

24 left.

24 like train tracks

Hit after hit.

The sound 'click'

haunts me to sleep.

Purple tinkerbell save me.

   Purple.

      A colour, secondary.

   Purple.

      A colour, that takes 3 weeks.

   Purple.

      A colour, I traded for sanity. 

Take example, 1 year back.

The day I remember

the word 'slut' ringed against my eardrums.

The day I remember

my fears, a reality.

Take example, 

the day was June 5th 2019.

The day I remember 

purple toothbrush and me.

The day I remember 

bulimia I almost befriended 

at 16.

 16, a year I call recovery.

   16, a year I say my 7 year habit

    self-starvation no longer a reality.

     16, a year I survived without the bliss of ignorance.

       16, a year I choose labels do not define me.

         16, a year I learnt words a double-edged sword

           16, a year I discovered common good in humanity.

             16, a year I yearn to dream.

 Purple, a colour

    more than just broken capilleries.

 Purple,

    a colour secondary.

Today,

the day pink glitter slippers and

purple tinkerbell

I say no longer freights me.

16, a year I take back

this

a promise to 

4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15 year old

me.