When you pried my six-year old self
Or sent me to the shrink at twenty-two,
Running to Maa was not a shame
I could gulp down and live,
So I ‘let’ you be my secret
Held tight at the throat,
Hands and feet and thoughts
Tied together with
With threads of melancholy,
Or perhaps a lifelong lust for touch;
‘Bitter chocolate’ it was indeed,
But unlike the creator-and-destructor
The three-eyed one,
My neck belied no shameful hues,
Merely a tinge of awareness gained
That innocence would henceforth be
Just a word, no more.
