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