Spilled tea over expensive emerald tablecloths,
Lost earrings and rough hands,
Tripping over nothing,
Laughing like the storm,
This daughter flies around the house.
Thunder crackles each time she touches the ground.
Not the sun or the joyous tunes of harmonica
Or the sweet Bengali mangoes of summer
Compare with her eyes.
Eyes of brown:
Like the cinnamon, a secret spice,
A little sweet, a little bitter.
This is the child with clouds for a soul,
This is the child who brings tears to her home.
Like a fish that can not swim, or a sour orange,
The daughter is not a wife.
Not a person, not enough,
Not a mother, we shall call her monster.
Claws for hands,
Everything she touches turns black
As poison drools down her nails,
Blankets everything in sticky pitch-black tragedy.
Aahir Mrittika likes to believe she's a Mohammadpur local, but she's actually a nerd. Catch her studying at email@example.com