By Acharaj Tuteja
The kohl under my eyes is a daunting reminder of the witches they set ablaze, did the ashes come from charred bigotry or forged piety? I’m yet to know.
The scars are from all those times the wolves deceived the lambs and preyed on chastity.
All those times the lioness was mistaken as a lamb and pressed against satirical cages.
I’ve told lies, yes but they were only to abscond the strangers who slid glasses of cheap whiskey across the table, paired with slurred remarks of how my deafening roar raises hell too often.
I was the girl, no, the woman who laid one too many lipstick shades – every lover a distinct ceremony of disjointed tints of scarlet.
I don’t bite my tongue or make excuses for furious diatribes.
Because angry women go to war for ascendancy instead.
Our fragility is buried against our sublime past.
We’re too prude and idealist for some, and unapologetically brusque for the rest.
Us goddesses are glitter and prowess and valour and fortitude.
So, does the devil in them crave me or do they crave salvation and redemption through my art?
Latter I believe, because the closest I ever get to repenting my sins is poetry.
Image Credit: Angel Ganev
