Normal. It always felt normal to me,
complementing those lusty shades of pink
or the bangles whose crinkle
always left my curves
curvy a little more.
I felt whole
checking out those boots or those little add ons,
a delight I must say
to the person inside
for whom
those crinkles never felt like shackles.
But they told, I can’t be the same,
they stared at me
like I was some freak.
Abnormal, they said,
not their normal, I argued.
I knew I was different,
a woman stuck in man’s mind,
but isn’t that just a perception?
The world has changed,
escalated even, I was hyped,
but nobody actually accepted those vibrancies,
they only accepted to accept those abnormalities
and still hold onto their own scrutiny,
a stereotype for an unified reflected opinion.
Are they being unfair, or just themselves,
should I rebel, or just hide?
For that worked,
until I wasn’t myself anymore,
when all they tell is to shape within,
why am I always seen as different!
I was born,
I bleed too,
like any other person,
I feel pain too,
I have my own desires
and I too sleep with cries.
The only thing I did
was to see her
and find that shine
to do something
never seen
in my kind.
The only change
was my wish, my appearance
and that made my way
worse than a petty crime!
It’s just who I am,
my existence
which for them
is just blasphemy!
Don’t I deserve the ‘fresh eyes‘?
Don’t I deserve
just being ‘me‘?
·poetry