They could never seem to capture my silence,
It was a thick rigidity that filled the air,
Heavy.
Dense.
They heard my music even though I could not sing
A yet shapeless,
Formless thing.
And they spun me
Tighter and tighter,
Pulling me tautly
Against their calloused hands
Giving my amorphous body
Shape.
Delicate, meandering
Curved contours
Around my frame
Drape.
Knives.
Carved me,
Countenance.
Straight faced, dark,
Always stony.
Constant.
Upon full breasts, and tiny waist,
Stone cloth, tight sari,
Draped.
And having finished tightly contouring my frame,
They drop me into a golden blaze.
Intense heat, sizzling skin,
Smoke that smelt of earth,
Charred flesh, yet still, a soul intact.
Tanned skin, turning white
My body bathing in milk
Caressing my hair,
With the night,
Adorning it with the stars.
Skeins of paint,
Dragged and kneaded across my body.
And when it dried,
They placed me on the mantle,
To be admired.
And roving eyes grazed my body,
Careless hands touched it.
Unable to understand my silence.
And years later,
When I finally broke, and chipped the paint
No red roses bloomed from my shattered body
But I sang, crashing and tinkling music
The sound of pebbles clattering,
At the mouth of the sea.
Broken porcelain,
Stitching together a shattered soul
A bird, once jailed
Set free
Ready to sing.

Featured artwork by SSH