By Avni Jain
I don’t want to carry the life 1
I’ve lived on me anymore,
I no longer want to be the sin of my memory or the virtue of my unchartered potential.
So, I invite you dear reader to the memoriam of the woman I could’ve been.
her fig tree stood tall and robust,
her wings crafted to soar high and loud,
but I stand under the sun to feel my skin burning,
to feel anything except this fear;
this fear of not belonging 2
this fear that was butterflies in my stomach
this fear that ignites fire within my body as I exhale smoke
this fear that captured her season of light and spring of hope into the four walls of my comfort
because a woman must have money and a room of her own to write
and I write to invite you, dear reader, to the memoriam of the woman I could’ve been.
take off your shoes and jewels 3
her sunshine engulfs it all
leave your flowers on the threshold
she twirls around in her garden of sunflowers in perfect white
she would have made a lovely bride
but her heart’s too pure and her soul numb for this ugly world
hold my hand, dear reader, and witness her take her last flight
to the sun and never look back
she is not meant to;
because a numb soul could never win against the burning skin.
-Avni Jain
Footnotes
1,2 and 3 depict a change in the flow of the poem.
Lines in italics are references to women writers I admire, who have come before me and immortalised themselves through their words.