We carry our deformities like lies,
Or is it the other way round?
Only we know of it, the others might,
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 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-
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?