how many springs have passed,
with me being my least favourite presence
will another version of me shrivel under the gaps between my bathroom tiles?
so clear I could see my reflection
and for a second there,
I had the eyes of a child, round and big
And the world didn’t know who I was
(neither did I)
and everyone told me I had no wrongs in me
will petals fall upon my eyelids without shriveling
and make the lens to the world rosy again?
how many more springs will pass,
till my bathroom tiles reflect,
a portrait painted by those who are dear
rather than my own scribbled self-portrait
will I ever recognize myself,
crying over the glossy clear bathroom tiles
as someone worth being good?
Jia Sharma is a teenage writer located in Mumbai, India. She enjoys creating watercolour paintings and reading tarot in her free time and has a fondness for cats and postcards. More of her writing can be found on her blog: https://aureatemoonshine.tumblr.com/