killer childhood

"pen is mightier than sword"

or so i read 

on the news

as i scroll through an instagram post

about a young poet 

jailed for anti-national poems 

and i sigh

as my inner patriot everyday increasingly

dies.

an ad pops up as i scroll further

"subscribe to meta Instagram 

for instant blue tick verification"

and i groan loudly 

so the aunty beside me 

sitting on the bus in the aisle seat

fanning her 

sweat-beaded face

with her tattered yellow saree's pallu

looks at me scrutinisingly. 

and i look out the raindrop stained 

rusty window of an overcrowded bus

craving for an urgent cigarette

as i reach home 

because it's raining 

and i work 9-5 

and i lose a part of my soul everyday 

and i need to know how soon i will die

so how will one cigarette 

kill me 

if i die everyday weakly. 

and the aunty beside me

her hands remind me of tough jute ropes 

and her face of concrete cement lines 

from the brick laying she does 

on roofs that aren't her own 

and she keeps sifting through my window

in reasons to go home 

desperately.

one of the 4k laser-cut led televisions

inside a corporate electronic sales store 

is playing "what makes you beautiful"

by one direction 

and i can't help but stare 

and wonder about time 

as treacherous as my childhood 

promising me happiness 

but i am butchered everyday

and it's not even halfway through 2023.

and i feel a raindrop 

spill across my tired face 

but it tastes salty 

like my tears 

as i realise 

i haven't danced in the rain 

for 3 years 

that have passed me.