When I was a child, my mother would put henna on my hands
Beautiful, intricate patterns, adorning my tiny, pale hands
They would stain dark, blacker than the blackest ink
They would stay for weeks
I would show them off, to friends and family, proudly
Prouder than I have ever been of my own art
I would stare at my hands
Like they were adorned with the most precious of gems and the most rare of silks
When I grew older, my mother would put henna on my hands
And her students, and her colleagues
I would take it for granted, just routine
I would take the inky black stain for granted
I didn't care much for it
It was just practice, and I was too busy to care
A while ago, I started developing my own style
I draw intricate patterns with henna
I cover my arms for hours
Not caring about the world
Just me, getting lost in my art
Striving to make every detail correct
Striving to make every detail seen
I wait, I pray for hours, I try every trick in the book
So that my henna is dark, stained dark, darker than the blackest ink
It stains dark, every time I decorate my hands
But still, every time, I pray
I pray for the universe to heed my humble request
I don't want to take this for granted, not at all
(kind of going along with the idea that a darker stain indicates how much loved you are. I never write, but there are occasional word vomits here and there. I hope y'all find this half coherent lmao)
