By Siya Kathuria
The canvas is broad and blank,
I have it all to myself, I think.
But then the thoughts seep in, and I have no one else to thank,
But her, and I get started with the ink.
I thought to fill it with colour, to fill it with life,
But I’m slashing out red blood from this knife.
The death of her is the birth of mine,
Her bleeding means I’m completely fine.
The canvas is splashed with disciplined outlines of monotone,
Soft silhouettes in which she seems stiffer than stone.
She's disguised as beautiful, for it is my hands that paint,
It is the face of the devil and the hands of the saint.
Her deceit is masked by charm she’s memorised,
A quality solely purposeful for winning every prize.
For she is everything but human; she’s successful, beautiful, and adored,
But when asked for help and care, she will close the door.
She is the anti-role model, she is what I should never be,
But that thought isn't shared, it's just for me.
Soon, I stop because it's just gotten scarier.
For I realise I'm outlining myself in my mirror.