By Shambhavi Kalash

i don’t own anything in red
no jewels, no scarf, no lipstick, no thread
my eyes turn from bridal gleam
i don’t know how to respond
when you call for me

every year
like tradition
you make me sit down
and watch the sun seep
into a living room
that belongs to neither you
nor to me

you don’t say anything
but i hear your eyes scream
every “congratulations, child”
is followed by an unsaid question:
you’re getting old, can’t you see?
at times, a joke
most times, a plea
met someone new, or leaving it to me?

i smile and match your preen
you’re not my blood
yet you speak
as if you command
the moments that make me, me

i wasn’t made for ivory towers,
but if my freedom hides in stone,
i’ll scale these walls
with divine hunger
and cage myself
to be on my own

my armour is my ambition
and my weapon, these books
if not through gift, then through grit
i will stay up and work
until i make a life i see fit

the only red i own is ink
it stains my forms
and makes me think
in drafts and lines
my life takes shape
each letter pressed, a small escape.

red, for me, is made to stay
a sign to halt,
to never betray

to you, dear reader
i admit
here,
in this restless scene
though i enjoy the flush of love
i’ve always been more fond
of the colour green

-shambhavi