By Prakriti Priya Bharali
He thought he grew older,
Yet he still clings to the past,
Trying—always trying—to be better.
She thought she grew up,
But all she had were scars,
Still pressing band-aids over wounds that never closed.
These were their jewels—
They told me few jewellers had forged them deep into their souls,
And now they wear them, playing their roles.
They whispered in my ear,
Their voices meant for me alone.
They spoke of the darkness within,
Of words hoarded like stones—enough to build a mountain.
They are not quite me, yet somehow, they are—
Two alter egos, locked in endless war,
Clashing, waiting for their moment to take control.
And so, I steady myself,
Feet firm, stance unshaken.
She would take off those jewels,
And he would slip them back on.
She shed the self that had been so cruel,
And he would drape it over her once more.