She don’t.

Don’t care about what others think.
Don’t let them break you.
Don’t be labelled.
Don’t do the don’ts.

She don’t.
She doesn’t walk in the shadows.
The shadow is where she was born.
She isn’t broken, she bows down.
She isn’t labeled.
She already hates what the mirror shows.
She doesn’t fear your abyss.
She breathes better in it.
She isn’t a legend.
Or your story to write.
She isn’t rabid about much.
About stuff that you say matters.

She isn’t modest.
She knows there isn’t an inside.
You touch her soul, it’s not black.
It is colorless.
Like water. Taking shape of its mould,
but unable to stay without support.

Her mind is empty,
No matter her stride.
It’s blank, with no note to leave.
She won’t leave a mark behind.
She is foul, vile, loathsome, your lesser than ordinary.
A mere observer who forgets.
Like you will her.

You take a look at her,
She straps on a fake smile.
So fake, she forgets what’s real.
She stifles her self slowly.
Slowly believing in what she doesn’t understand.
And when her wars over,
she isn’t changed or victorious.
Still lacks substance.
Yet what you say doesn’t matter.
She is lost and stray.
Don’t try to find her for your day.
She isn’t yours or anyone else’s.

Now that you think you know her,
You cannot afford her,
Or try to patronize,
Or make her oblige.
Because… She don’t.

-Sabah Batul