Her tinge of blue

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.