from the parted hair, in between matted locks,
the red vermilion bleeds, soaking her scalp red,
flows down spreads red in her eyes, her tears bleed red,
god, what maya, the women cling to the threads of restraint red.
no longer an option, but an imperative waiting to be met,
what ties two willing bodies but renders them chained,
the vermilion seeps through her scalp, her intellect enslaved,
working against her own aspirations, her vermilion bleeds red.
two fingers pinch the powder, shakily up to her forehead,
no more is it a sovereign act, love, or decision independently made,
bound in deprivation, rather illusioned she needs another to be her mate,
who neither got out of his victimhood nor acknowledged her bruises red.
she gives, he takes, and claims it his entitled share to be regularly made,
doesn't dare speak against her "providers", and quietly slaves away afraid,
born human, brought up as commodity, given away with great reluctance and dread,
the troubled have a flamboyant trap of luring another into a silly masquerade,
an illusion of happiness, choice, and control, fabricated in deep vermilion red.
YOU ARE READING
I'm fashionably late to loving myself
PoetryThe world would be dull if love, poetry, admiration, zeal, passion, and romance wouldn't lace each strand of our heavenly web. I spill my heart on this one love letter to the entire humanity. In a faint voice though, soft enough to hear only when yo...
