A Saint’s Stain

I was still growing in my mom’s belly 

when my father finally decided on my name

‘Inats’-- An odd, unconventional name to bestow a baby

A name that rolled off the tongue with a flame

My mom chuckled and rolled her eyes, and dared:

“What meaning does the name hold?”

“A brave and resilient woman” my father declared,

“The perfect name for a little girl to hold.”

“A name is a prayer” said my grandmother

She prayed to the Gods that I’d live up to the name

Yet nobody could’ve predicted the horror

That would hold me hostage inside my own frame

I grew up a witness to deceitful vows

in the comfort of a house that pretended to have no fouls 

Always given a front-row seat to two actors screaming at the top of their lungs

Little did they know, the scenes they acted out wrecked the youngs 

I grew up a spectator to deception 

Missed bedtime routine, missed reflection

of my father in the household

Empty assurances, empty emotion

of my mom who tried hard to get ahold

of scrapes, crumbs, and remain

Then slowly, the scars in my heart materialized

Stains began surfacing on my body

I’d rubbed it off with my mom’s affection, harshly 

Yet they doubled and became plenty

I kept scrubbing until my skin got irritated

Till I remember, 

they were inherited wounds from my daddy

Ones that became his legacy for me

What must a girl do to wash away the sins she didn’t commit?I stopped looking at my reflection in the mirror,

fearing that I was nothing but stains of my father’s nonexistent guilt

I rolled my sleeves down so they remained concealed

Yet untreated wounds bled and screamed asking to be healed

I pleaded my mom an unattainable type of wealth,

a warm home where peace resides and love flourishes

Yet she found it beyond her capacity and instead gifted me death

A grief so massive, I preferred to lay on the ground with her, only to be separated by some inches 

The world seems to have deserted me

Dragged me by my hair and braided me with self-loathing and misery

I got nowhere left to go, everywhere I went the doors had lost their key

So I took refuge in therapy rooms to stop the knot from completely annihilating me

And that’s when I realized a twist in the story

A saint doesn’t resemble a blank piece of paper

Their bodies are, too, stained by clots and smudges

Yet they find nothing much greater

than to rise and let go of the grudges

“A brave and resilient woman” my father uttered as he signed my birth certificate

Despite the pain and hurt, he did gift me a beautiful name with prayers enveloping each syllable

Thus I slowly roll up my sleeves, my stains visible yet delicate

I go inside the therapy room and brace myself, 

to keep building a version of me that refuses to be hostage of the past