By Kuhu Sharma
What was the secret?
The lie I smelled
Lingering upon the air.
Oh, it danced with me,
Ran its hands through my hair,
Swayed my earrings
And settled at the hollow of my throat;
A medieval microchip.
In the corners of the smile,
And the crinkles of the eyes;
In the sound that wrung out of me,
A dry, gravelly laugh,
Unveiling some – not uncommon – tired cynic,
The matter: that I did not disappear and do the same.
This picture would never recreate.
That I went home to a dark room,
Drew the curtains,
And methodically removed my batteries.
One. By. One.
Springs and bumps.
And there, stationed rather perfectly,
Hands clasped and head bent
I ceased to be.
This – the salacious picture itself –
May it never reach your eyes.
For of course, for you,
I would appear again;
Another necklace, another smile,
Another cynic,
Tired.