March Eighth

I had lain, sat and walked in silence for too long.

Existed

a marionette on strings.

Then someone freed me.

Or so, I thought.

“we worship your spirit- the cult of a Goddess. You are safe.”

So I was safe. Safe with layers of myths woven around me, words shining with glory and expectations,

And the infallibility of that pedestal you built on which I am

and I am to be.

To elevate and emancipate me, I am sure.

And happy I was that I was finally, finally free.

One day, my pedestal sprouted a tree.

With branches- long and sinewy,

Silken on my skin, slurred with a heavy love.

Emancipated , I knew, my destiny.

I was to exist again, in harmony,

With all that nature has thought about me.

Or endure that nagging sense of loss

That always  gnaws at me.

So privileged am I

You see, I am grateful to you, my benefactor,

the great hero that will always be there to patronize me.

You gave me air to breathe, books to read and songs to sing, oh yes.

But, those were mine, regardless.

So how else can I be grateful to you?

Yes, yes, you let me be born.

I learnt.

To read, cook, and tend.

And there was that red and white man with a dazzling smile

That taught me other things too.

And a crooked smile when I could not or would not

Prove it! Prove it, prove it!

That I am worthy at all.

Day and night, day and night.

And I have learnt so well

To hide my bile in a plastic smile.

Once I had broken through the wax at my feet

To step on a bluer grass

And your kinsmen toyed with me

I was sheathed in shame and rage,

When you came back

You sentenced me.

And built a stronger pedestal with greener and many more, trees.

You never knew what it was to be me

To still be a marionette with invisible strings

And yet, you will ridicule

Every time I dance.

I guess when it only ends

If I crumble to dust

Or will you then build a gilded urn to encase my afterlife?

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