you say that I’m no good at com part men tal iz ing-
never learnt to quite tell my blues from my greens
stopped to dye my hair every colour in between.
but don’t you pity me,
or my love
just because it
overflows like a cup left under the sink a second too long
because it
never learnt to stay between the lines when painting the sunrise
because it
doesn’t fit neatly into my carry-on when I’m the last one to board the plane back home
because it
bleeds from English to Bangla when I iron my grandmother’s wrinkles out with a kiss
because it
gets tangled up with your sheets in the wash
because it
slips off my tongue when I’m trying to argue
because it
trickles down my cheeks when I’m laughing with my brother
because it
trips over its own shoelaces at the playground
because it
spills onto your new shoes at the party I promised would be worth the drive
because it
forgets not to forgive a wrong that’s been righted
because it
never quite learnt the delicate art of disguise.
no-
it’s you I pity,
because honestly, darling, you wouldn’t know what ‘love’ looked like
if it hit you in the face with a Ferrari.
tell me what you’d p i g e o n hole that into:
a hit-and-run,
or
hasty self-defence?
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