By Shirsha Saha
Was never a daddy’s princess,
He was more of a wild-hearted friend.
A year and some change has slipped by since
From his ashes rose a steadfast warrior -
A phoenix carrying his will of fire.
But even those fabled healing tears
Could not soothe an inch of my bleeding soul.
Somewhere amid the endless ripples of time,
And the chaotic wind of destiny,
Life moves on - or so I convince myself.
In the urban jungle, I check into a faceless building -
Turning logic into algorithms, syntax into distraction.
But every hour or two, my heart clenches.
My eyes swell up and I run -
My inner child screams, desperate to run away;
My adult self seeks closure in mirrors and flowing tap water.
Imposter syndrome, self-doubt engulf me;
History rarely remembers women kindly - or correctly,
Trained to fight tooth and nail for every basic right,
Forced to walk the extra mile just to start competing.
The creative, feminine energy in me -
Fragile, hanging by a thread - I brace myself
For yet another day of functional depression,
Hoping - no praying - that someday,
The mystical cosmos will explain the agony
And the warrior may take off her armour,
To wear a pastel silk sundress instead.