Like the sides of an unsolved Rubik’s cube, her life is a multi-coloured mess. She lives in a paradox— contemplates the bigger picture from her 6 x 6 cubicle, toils away from 9 to 5 and calls it making a living. She was taught to fit into glass slippers, instead of breaking glass ceilings.
Waits for Prince Charming to hold her in his open palms, trace her silhouette and feel the burden of an unsolved puzzle. Come, she’ll hand over her baggage to the first person, who walks through the door. She’s supposed to be a little too trusting anyway. But he will soon find out that the more he tries to fix her, the more damage he inflicts.
Because she has had her fair share of being picked apart and reassembled by a society that tells her that flaws are unacceptable. She was taught to rearrange her tiles— to slide, shift, twist and turn until all the sides of the cube are solved.
Girls, let me tell you that you are not a puzzle piece. Not object or metaphor. You are not perfection in a square. It is not you who needs to change.
Go and send out a search party to find the key that unlocks your voice. We’ll sneak in and steal your doubts for target practice and teach love to every fire extinguisher mouth, who tries to take away your flame. They don’t see that we have more ambition than a dozen men. They don’t see the butterfly dreams we keep in Mason jars under our beds or the secrets laced through our hearts like corset strings.
Now listen. These are the voices they tried to bury. These are our good, strong hands meant to build. These are our Rubik’s cube hearts, whole, all its patterns in proud disarray.