By Priyanka Singh
I am no more a dead legacy
Of 16 years of shameful smiles,
~8 years of smiling with teeth showing,
~the rest of a blooming tragedy.
I’ve lost the count of times
Of being the ashtray to the butt of your cigarettes,
Smoking away taunts full of choking breaths.
When the scars of lashing leather belts faded,
My mourns wished to be jotted down
Because with a kalam in one hand
And bottled tears in other,
I’m the silence evading after an almost won war,
Because the laundry room is not my battlefield,
Because burning every journal of mine
Won’t stop my words from
Spilling and splashing from beneath the doors,
Singing and silencing the questioning stares,
Living and leaving behind
A breathing legacy.