The Half Life

Honestly?

I would give anything to leave my place.

Desert this ink, this paper,

These stray thoughts,

that come unannounced,

Like a stranger who knows you;

knows you well.

I want to run away,

shedding my sun-burnt skin on the way

hoping to run into faith,

who would consider latching onto me,

at least for little while,

until I sleep the dream away.

I, sometimes, foolishly

wonder how the savarna made it.

How did that girl, with her porcelain skin,

and sophisticated nonchalance,

who belittles my very being,

is fighting for my people’s rights

on a wall that offers instant amnesty?

Maybe it’s the hate,

that gets conjured at birth.

A dark-skinned vagina.

Penurious and Avarna.

Inadequate. Disadvantaged. Unequal.

Must strive to get accepted,

should curb anger, lest you get labeled;

avoid conflict, lest you’re unfriended;

dress down, lest you‘re ‘wanted’;

speak when spoken to, lest he leaves, lest she leaves;

don’t ever, ever leave when bruised; lest you get unloved.

Perhaps,

the savarna can do all this and more,

have that streak of rebellion,

just that tiny bit,

allowed by the luxury of her privilege,

that turns on the men, the women,

of all varnas, and colors, and hues.

She can swear and still be,

She can hate and still be loved.

Unlike me,

The half-life. Who lives,

but shouldn’t know what it really means to.