chickens die to become KFC, the most halal of fast food.

“And I knew that in spite of all the roses and kisses and restaurant dinners a man showered on a woman before he married her, what he secretly wanted when the wedding service ended was for her to flatten out underneath his feet like Mrs Willard’s kitchen mat.” ― Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

My mother says she’s afraid for
my freedom, that i will
lose it. Lose that freedom to my
husband, who will grow old to
become a religious nutjob.

That my children will have no freedom
dictated by the will of her
Cross. Dictated by what is true
in the minds of your JAKIM,
PERKIMs and what not.

That my life will dwindle,
diminished in the hands of
those men.

But my freedom is mine, mother.
Are you like those men? Of course not.

Those men think that they are able
to grasp the choices of others.
Dictate will.
Dictate freedom.
Those men know my body more than I
know it myself. They know what
colour red stains my sheets.
They know the moon when it
waxes and wane.
Those men know.

Basked in the golden rays of
goddamn prayer. So bright. Light.
Lies.  there were words uttered only to
keep up with appearances.
these are words to save our souls from the fiery
pits of hell, my mother says.

Forgive me Lord for I have sinned.

My mother. Your MUIS. God forbid we let
devils and jinns touch our souls. My mum
so afraid that her heaven won’t be mine.
Where else would I be, if not hell.
The megaphone screams the azan at
the crack of dawn. BEWARE HELL.

No cross is mine to carry. I will
tell you, because I know when the
sun strolls along my back. I will
tell you, even when the cat’s got
my tongue. I love you, Ma. I can tell
you to trust me.

But these men.
I will burn the three RM50 notes
given by these men as an offering
to ghosts in the month of July.

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