I toss the waves
like those little shining balls,
I used to toss in childhood.
I built my own world,
against the odds I knew,
with them, whom the world called strangers,
but whom I called home.
I laid hours upon the table
like delicacies they came to savour.
They relished every offering,
yet underneath, they were scavengers.
I never questioned their reasons;
I mistook them for my own.
They said we couldn’t judge their ways,
and I believed them.
But now, they know hatred,
of malice and betrayal.
Of broken vows and disloyalty,
of unfamiliar faces;
and those once known.
And the agony is mine to bear,
as though my presence
had never mattered.
Now I lie upon the shards of glass,
beneath my ribs.
It doesn’t hurt anymore,
not as it used to.
***
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 editor@madrascourier.com.
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