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The Other Way Round

We carry our deformities like lies,

Or is it the other way round?

Only we know of it, the others might,

Or not.

Not lies, maybe guilt,

And the shame-

A bottle of cologne on a body of sweat. 

The pretentiousness so conspicuous,

-An extra limb protruding from a dress.

And we hide under paper bags dreading the rains.

Liars and disabled are seldom confident,

The guilt of a sin,

Or the shame of half existence,

Of masks,

Of pity, of disgust,

Like a Medusa staring from a rampart. 

The need to fit in,

To get along-

The helplessness of an apple

On a knife, 

Or the other way round.

The chameleons on the loose,

Dread their discovery.

And try so hard to disappear

To remain unnoticed,

Painting themselves in the background.

While the world dies trying

The other way round. 

Would it help if we halted our stance

Of telling x and y from z?

Ignore or mark them as equal

Would it help? 

Or without telling-

Still knowing-

Of lies and disabilites.

We build contours favoring each one of us,

That we stand together as equals,

As if the world always existes like this,

Or I am asking for too much?

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Written by Pallavi Suri

Beauty in the crevice of Nature

Happiness is within