A girl with history in her bones

A poem

For years, I have written about politics, systems, and society, dissecting the forces that shape our world. But behind every political story, there’s a human story , one that is often quieter, more fragile, and harder to tell.

This poem holds pieces of that quieter story. I don’t offer it as a break from my usual work, but as an expansion—because our politics are lived in our bodies and our lived experiences. And sometimes, we need poetry to tell those parts that prose can’t always reach. Here goes….

A girl with history in her bones

I was born
in a village that had no electricity,
no incubator,
just hot air and quiet panic.
900 grams of maybe.
The doctors said,
“She won’t last the week.”
Some called it a miracle.
Sometimes I wonder
if they meant it.

I didn’t cry much as a baby.
Not sure if that meant I was peaceful
or just already tired.

Polio at five.
Not the worst case,
but enough.
Enough to make me slower,
softer,
less chosen.

Other kids played.
I had appointments.
Physiotherapists instead of dollhouses.
Braces instead of bangles.
I learned how to move like someone
pretending to be a child.

When I was twelve,
we moved to a school
that smelled like bleach and noise.
No one talked to me.
I talked anyway.
Smiled too much.
Answered too fast.
Tried to be useful,
interesting,
easy to like.
It didn’t work.

I used to beg my mother
to stay in the classroom with me.
She couldn’t.
I sat on the steps after the bell,
backpack biting into my spine,
watching the gate,
like something I loved
might walk through it.

We lived between
a dumping ground
and a slaughterhouse.
The air was thick
with stench and endings.
Even ideas
felt like they died there.

We were the people who were discarded,
marginalised,
who found comfort in numbers,
in a neighbourhood they refused to issue a credit card.
Long queues for subsidised grains and kerosene.
Eid came dressed in kindness —
even if the kindness cost too much.
The generosity of parents could not shield us everywhere.

The headmistress said I was
“too quiet. too soft. fragile.”
Said it like a note in a file,
not a person.
Not a child.
Like she was reading my failure
off a report card.

Rejection came early.
Sat beside me in class.
Walked me home.
Taught me how to fold myself
into a version of nothing
just to survive.

I learned to be invisible
without resentment.
To make it look graceful.

And still,
they called me brave.

Years later,
my name was on magazine covers.
Photoshoots.
“Trailblazer.”
“One of the bravest women we know.”
The same world that once
looked through me
now wanted my story
on glossy paper.

But they don’t know.
I still feel like a mistake.
A fluke.
I smile when they praise me
but my eyes find the exits
without meaning to.
Still sure I’ll be exposed
as not enough.

Love is the hardest part.
Feels like a trick —
beautiful for a second,
then gone.
A cliff dressed as a field.
When real men get close,
they see the rust under the shine.
The limp.
The ache.
The girl still begging to be kept.
And they leave.

They come
looking for perfection—
someone flawless,
shining,
perfect.
They find me:
real,
raw,
soft in all the wrong places.
And they leave.

They don’t want
a girl with history in her bones.
A woman who flinches
when kindness lingers too long.

Rejection feels like home.
It’s sharp, yes —
but familiar.
Like a song you hate
but know all the words to.

I tell myself I’m strong.
And maybe I am.
But I still dream
of running.
Of disappearing.
Of starting over
as someone easier to love.

They call it courage.
But this—
this is survival.
This is me
still scared,
still waiting,
still hungry
for something

I’m not sure I even believe in anymore.