By: Anushka Somvanshi
Lips puckered in aphotic thoughts, throat jammed with verses, with a desire so painful, she said under the thatched roof, cloth and straw as a sliver of solace, kissed her to sail through, periods, so tough, sanitary napkins bliss wasn't hers, flippant tongues ask for dowry, but pads are such an obscure taboo, tears welled up in her eyes, trembling like a candle, she wrote the exam, bleeding, strung out she was to speak about it, people find such talks peculiar, they just whisper, every day she rises against the sun, embraces her contours, succumbs the mental exhaustion, but loses the war to taxation, are sanitary pads luxury? she stops and ponders, not all pockets are lavishly sewn, some strangulate to basic living, there's a deeper vein of grief, distant and void of mainstream talks, 'gender-neutral' is a victim, deserted and unheard, paid period leaves are spinning, myths of courage, biological issues subjugating finances, a sign of solitary confinement, grown-up girls dropping out, being labeled as impure, a headache is a normal affair, then why whisper about menstruation, why a black bag and obscurity, let's cheer about this process, a golden plight, swapping black with a rainbow.
(Image from here.)
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