By Makda Assefa ’26
The world is a daunting place, they said,
Rough,
With edges that will poke and prod,
Prick you, until blood is drawn.
Hold your head up high, they said,
Neck strained, eyes straight,
Gaze fixed,
Fixated on this world,
This imperfect world where I am but a woman.
I see this world and I see myself,
I try to smooth my edges, to assimilate,
Grating away at sharp imperfections.
I grate until fingers can delicately brush over me,
Until I am small enough,
Smooth enough,
To fit in their hands.
