the white gates of my body,
trimmed with gold,
and wound in green vines,
are closed.
There is a reacquaintance with self,
A welcoming of home,
Yellow garlands worn as a celebration,
There is blood everywhere,
Walls leaking from rooms unaware,
From rooms not entered,
Cardamom pods scattered across kitchens,
brewing with anise and vanilla,
to make the sweetest of chais out of myself,
now,
this is the time,
to churn up the darkest parts of me,
only to milk it out through dance,
to replace the katha* with the sweet
a reacquaintance with the divine,
the untouched parts of flesh,
of hidden bones and lies told to cover up,
Patchwork on flesh,
embroidered with the bruises that made me,
from villages of women with beaten hands,
who passed down the only knowledge given,
the insults on thread that sewed the soul into crevasses forced shut,
the same I bleached over and over,
to wash out my skin from the colour given from gods,
to now decorate with beads and shishas*
and adorning in rubies, emerald, gold, and turquoise,
I am taking a road down into the unknown,
the sand beneath me feels holy,
this is the Becoming,
into the Unknown
Katha* = bitter
shishas*= mirrors used in rajasthani clothing and across pakistan