rkmerley

Beyond the streets of Mumbai, The long grass grows thin and weary, Bulls stand tall with tusks, Their eyes are shed with fierce red lust, Red with rings pierced through their snout. There is no mercy to their opponents, The ones who come to play. With sickles and swords that litter their backs, Of fierce integrity, the buffalo stands, The sickening hot sun watches from above, As the long grass is muffed, By their hooves and run. As both parties begin their attack, And draw attention to the soreless fact. As houses are torn apart, And flames erupt throughout the yard, The long grass burns, And screams for help. Beyond the streets of Mumba

Intelligent, they’d say and make me shy away but not for the reason you’d think. My face would turn red in embarrassment – and anger, and fear. Anger for them assuming: one simple A on my report card deeming me a prodigy. Fear for being called out because the C’s are hidden under assignment folders and the D’s are deep within the ground never to be seen or heard of. My heart beats furiously in my chest like the harsh monsoons when they say that one word—intelligent—and the fear, which floats like a rising flood, waits impatiently to be drained and rescued. Lying in bed, I think about how I’d