Delhi

We are not allowed our voices.

I have invoked death (because it’s true, the only truth, really).

But I am silenced by your feeling of rejection, your thirst, your hunger (though you think I’m the hungry one).

Your ego is greater than my pain.

My heart is buried (there is no need for it in this city).

Better under the soil than face the smog, anyway.

You want to know why, though.

But this is it, my tongue is cut out and I’m still meant to speak using smiles.

Tell me, how much can a smile say?

My lips are painted (for myself, I enjoy colour) but you think they are for you.

I’m not allowed my lips, my colours, my tongue, my thoughts, my pride.

And, somehow, you’re the angry one.