They call you MY ******
I have a mother; my mother
A sister; may be a daughter
Or a son.
My father, my brother, my friend, my classmate, my lover
My people.
Where do you figure?
Yet they say you are mine.
Mine.
Their impassioned pleas
Echo in courtrooms, in police stations,
On stark black letters staring out of newspapers;
Crisp saris and well-fitted suits, their accented comments
Drenched in arrogance, tumbling out of flat-screen television sets;
Smug families discussing me (and you) in bright living rooms
With unblemished walls bearing paintings of enigmatic women.
They all say
You are MY ******
I can see you.
I can see you glowing with pride.
Feel the shroud of admiring glances
Cocooning you wherever you go.
For every sigh of cuss, there are a hundred
Congratulatory nods.
They giggle
As you hold my mangled soul
Up above your head,
Like the tattered flag of an enemy country.
Why, you have silenced another of those
Who dared to rear her sad, ugly head.
Or a happy, pretty one.
What difference does it make?
You never saw
My eyes
Eyes screaming out loud, and going dry
Wide open, yet blind.
You didn’t feel
Tired, shapeless lumps of my being watching us
As my body stopped being mine,
But an amalgam of ******* ****** and a
Deep long scar across eternity.
While I no longer have a name,
You possess one more: ‘My ******
Oh yes, I invited it upon myself
I have chosen it,
I have chosen YOU.
It was predestined. A given.
Since the time I was born.
So you might as well be mine.
My ******
Jan 5, 2016
Jan 5, 2016 at 11:04 AM UTC