Witch Hunt Poem by Arati Warrier

My people are magic, know how to fold into their skin and hold
themselves up, know how to fit somewhere they are not welcome.
2013
I am back in my parents' house.
The entire thing is a closet.
I am a master of illusion; false smile, false laugh, false daughter.
But it is overwhelming to remember that I am still a mistake,
a tired secret.
I can't tell my parents about this girl I know
and how beautiful her lips are. So instead I whisper it into my pillow over
and over.
I can't explain to my mother that her casual homophobia is ripping holes
in all of my sweaters and I am always shivering.
I find myself upset in the shower, hissing at the faucet
Thank you for making me foreign for making me supernatural
for making me hate the way my tongue fits in my mouth.
I watch my mother laughing on the phone with her mother.
I picture myself coming out and my parents' heartbreak
flooding the house. This is a powerful sorcery,
one I am not ready for.
My parents are not ready for all the mystic in my womanhood,
don't understand this combat boot fueled rage and desire to shave my head,
how I break daily, come out again and again and again and again.
My parents so easily assume I must be straight, don't understand how, I love freely.
2014
I dream constantly of the enchantments
that make home in a woman's mouth. My dreams are never in sound.
Silence is not shame or an apology. A sanctuary is built in moments of quiet.
I know how to pick my battles and accept this body.
My people, we accept these bodies, and celebrate them in all their wounded glory.