Maybe

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…

And maybe,

that’s what she wants.

© Isha Garg