Betrayal of Trust

Sweat beads and spills
from a coarse, bristled body
The scent of raw flesh,
Opium.
The yellow festival yard
sinks under the weight of sorrow,
a shehnai’s wail
splits the dusk,
Sears both flesh and soul
beneath the neon dusk.

The yellow light runs
like forgotten washwater
No one notices.
Each gaze is fixed
on the shimmer of private delusions.
Sweat merges,
chemistry invisible,
Yet suffocating the woman’s body.

A beloved strawberry-flavour rubber
left sealed,
tucked in a denim pocket,
Lost to the heat
of neglect and dominance.
Tonight, for the first time,
She understands.

Who hears kin’s songs anymore?
Shehnai or bugle
Who presses their ear
to her chest
to follow the rhythm of joy?

In the glow of this yellow-lit night,
she sheds
borrowed sheen,
and rises,
veined in her true hues:
sweat, raw flesh, and opium.
The lament plays on
ghosts of breathless boys
echo in her inner ear,
a private dirge
No one else can hear.