A Hundred Deaths Poem by Mathew Thomas

Becoming a woman,
Songs sung dry,
I walked to the bazar,
Men smiled with eyes that gore,
Cold icicles of stares,
That no fleece could warm,
Leers had grown,
Like creepers entwining my soul,
The weight of looks,
Opaque lust,
Bore my body down,
To hide my breasts,
Wished they disappeared,
And died a hundred deaths.

Nuptials at fourteen,
Toe rings and nose pin,
And sacred vermillion,
The thread around my neck,
A weighted stone,
Not the malignant aunts,
Not the songs, whistles or leers,
Not the millstone,
That shackled;
But in the weight of lust,
The birth of a girl,
Not a boy;
I hid my shame,
And died a hundred deaths.