B-L-I-N-G has always defined my life and world.

Struggle? Huh. Absolutely not.

Yes. Absolutely not. Not when

I had to get into the skin

Of the person, who shall judge my work.

I am supposed to, no wait, I wanted to,

Bring something new-in-vogue.

I am still struggling to keep that zeal alive.

How alive am I in this skin? This facade that I wear

Of a ‘promising upcoming designer’?

How different is this life from that model’s

Who plasters her appearance,

Looks into a form – a ‘morph’ for the fashion-in-season.

Well, I make that morph with my own hands.

I am the tailor who sews the catharsis,

In which my sweat and blood flows.

How long can my catharsis lie itself?

How long can I stand along, as a vendor of skins?

Can’t skins tear and bleed?

I wish all those skins bleed,

Shouting my anger and vengeance

And calm down my insane mind.

Sometimes I can feel my own skin clawing open

Into wounds, I didn’t know he inflicted. Or she.

Through His and Her eyes. I wish.

I wish all those eyes and lights and fans would shut down.

They fan the furnace in my heart and exposes my ‘self’.

I feel stripped, naked and dehumanised. And weak.

Yes, yes I am weak. I am struggling.

And mastering the struggle has been my game.

The world forgets but I know it right,

The tailor knows best where the stitches are needed.

Author: Pompi Basumatary

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