I used to dream that I could be
A life lived out in vintage dresses and
Tea at four, fragile porcelain with
The clicking of typewriter keys

I used to dream that I could be
Net gloves and veils, heels always
High and elegant on the 48 bus
And lipstick lined on perfectly

I used to dream that I could be
Running the world – or femme fatale
Cutting words, seduction and vice
Cigarettes and whisky at three

I used to dream that I could be
Hitchcock’s heroine washed and set
Neat home and neater profession
Always carrying on productively

Yet now I see I will always be
Pyjamas till one, or all week
With day old hair – eyes smudged
Hungover and reeking of coffee

Yet now I see I will always be
Temperamental with my
Flighty pen and paper scribbles
Reading, writing disinterestedly

Yet now I see I will always be
Painfully average and mundane
Second-best, never measuring
Up to those surrounding me

Yet now I see I will always be
Warm wine – a microwave queen
A disastrous whirlwind unsatisfied
And dreaming suicidally.

*© Tara India.