She wasn’t fat, not quite,
but she wasn’t the kind to slip unnoticed
between the lines of a mirror.
She adored the taste of life
crumbs of comfort in quiet cafés,
sipping warmth she never truly felt.
But not more than she despised
the skin she wore like armour too tight.
She wasn’t shy.
Her voice could fill a room,
her laughter could melt silence.
But she disliked the weight of words
that meant nothing.
She longed for conversations
that scraped past the surface,
yet her own truths lay buried
beneath a silence
even she couldn’t break.
She laughed louder than most,
but it was always
a few seconds away
from trembling into tears.
She wasn’t cruel
not even close.
But she couldn’t find kindness for herself,
no matter how far she searched.
She gave and gave,
a lighthouse for everyone else,
even as her own shores
eroded beneath her feet.
In a room full of people,
she was the light they swarmed to,
but she always felt
like a ghost in her own story.
She willingly wore the crown
they handed her,
but the shine of the crown
pricked her like thorns.
She was soft-spoken, yes
yet inside her,
thoughts raged like a storm
trapped beneath a silent cage.
She never manipulated
she didn’t need to.
She simply knew
which truths to soften
and which lies
to wear like perfume.
She poured love
like it was infinite,
yet never tasted
a drop of it returned
in the same hue.
She was always chasing
not people,
not dreams,
but a feeling she couldn’t name,
a home she’d never seen.
Always hungry.
Always aching.
A constant burn beneath her skin,
a quiet desperation
in her fingertips.
She bled invisible wounds
bruises forged in silence,
wounds that never healed.
But no one
looked close enough.
***
Madras Courier originally ran as a broadsheet with a poetry section. It was a time when readers felt comfortable sharing glimpses of their lives through verse. If you have a poem you’d like to submit, do email us at [email protected].
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