I knew a girl a few years back. She seldom spoke; but when your native tongue is foreign in the place one calls home, I suppose silence is more comfortable.

     Jagged bangs framed her delicate features, as she tried to shed every facet of her former self. She longed to be Western: Uninhibited, and adorned with gems and her “metals”, she was the image of rebellion. But she was still so delicate. I’m sure her mother begged her to embrace her femininity, if not her culture. But that was not this girl’s way. She just stood silent, watching and learning and becoming more with each passing day. She let herself grow hard; her shell seemingly unbreakable.

     Until she wrote.

     The words bled from her fingertips as though they longed to expose the very core of who she was. And I longed to catch those crimson stories and figure out what vein she had to cut, just so I could feel like all the wasted ink mattered for something. Her words were so raw and so honest. When she read them with her thick accent and hushed tone, an unmistakable truth came through, and I envied it.

     For when she shared her poetry, I understood her to be feminine.

    When she shared her poetry, I understood her to be from a country so eloquent and serene, that I could never fathom such peace.

     I met a girl a few years back. She seldom spoke. But, then, she didn’t have to.