So maybe she’s mastered the poker face
put the moon in a wineglass
and escaped into the ink stained night
reflecting no light, no starry blink
no expression, no worries
taking in the eclipses and storms
that rent the firmament, into her galaxy
and never crying tears of stardust.
So maybe no one can see the dying bird inside her
bleeding crimson in the heart
wings flap-flap-flapping in a wild frenzy
breath – a lone whisper in the dark
(or perhaps a wail)
like anxious glasses shattering endlessly
and panic in her fingers as they close in on her throat
bubbling wide eyed palpitations at midnight.
So maybe she’s fighting the dark night even as she gleams in the light,
maybe they believe, that she really is fine…
that’s what she wants.
© Isha Garg