Sheena is a Punk Rocker

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I spent my twenties moonlighting as someone with a backbone. Wallflower girl by day, a woman who has never been hurt by night.

Sheena is her name–my alter ego–after the punkrocker the Ramones sang about. She was born in the jungle and dressed the way I would if I weren’t afraid. The way I would if I didn’t prefer to hide inside my clothes. Her body a canvas of tattoos, scars, and hairy limbs. Meaty shoulders and the posture of a king. She leaves a trail of glitter & smoke as her colossal footsteps trek the earth.

As vulgar as she is

Unapproachable,

Unmanageable,

Unhinged.

Forehead crinkled from the angry scrunching of her furrowed eyebrows. Teeth sharpened just enough to sink into flesh. They found her face unsettling. They found her hard to look at.

And she couldn’t give a flying fuck.

She never learned shame. She never covers her mouth when she laughs. They come straight from her belly with a hearty roar. She tells time with the moon and sings painfully off-pitch at the top of her lungs. She is a pianist with no audience, a painter with no muse. She is a poet, a granddaughter, and above all a prickly bitch.

An anarchist rage fills her eyes, alive with hunger for small minds and smaller men. She hisses at them, crushing their skulls like cardamom in boiling water. She peels their raw d*cks like bananas and dances bharatanatyam on their dusty graves.

When people piss her off she tells them. Spits on their shoes, laughs in their faces.

Her voice is so loud children hear its echo in Karachi. A piercing shriek that sends boys cowering. Swallowed by a crude tongue of sin.

She talks like the floor is hers and they all want to hear more. She’s not afraid to cry–she doesn’t fear vulnerability. She never cuts onions like an empty housewife just trying to see what tears taste like.

She throws tantrums like a child begging to be heard.

She cries and screams like a dainty white maid will clean up her mess.

She will tell her love she is sick of being given flowers. And then take them to her journal to press them dry.