Growing from my skin are flowers,

swaying, fighting the cold sunless

sky of the train.

You must have felt this way

when the pills he handed you  

sprouted unbreakable vines

entangling you: a trap.

When winter came but

the winds of change did not.

However long

darkness consumed you

I do not know,

but you could not be

choked because your

lungs were made of

purity and hope

and pomegranate seeds.

That the frail flowers you

so fearfully grew

from the core of your soul

with no sunlight

are still standing strong

untrampled, unplucked.

And the chains that held you

however hysterical they may have been

are gaining visibility, elasticity,

falling and clattering on pavements

covered in petals and posters,

out of stock, purged to extinction.

Today, many arias

have been sung

some louder than others

some muffled like your sweet voice

some causing ears to bleed, fingers to point

And many say we

are ungrateful, angry

But when I hear stories

about my friends getting

groped on the train,

pictures taken without

consent

Their voices erased

too shocked to mutter

“Stop”

How can I not feel angry?

What are we supposed

to be grateful for

when we still need

to pencil out a boundary

for people to understand

where to stop?

When others still hold

the power to erase

shaky-handed letters

whispering

“Help”?

Persephone,

if only you could see us now,

with our pink hats and hashtags,

with stems of solidarity,

so you could know

we are fighting

we are persisting

that you are not forgotten

underneath us.