The years, on my face, they made a map,
And you wonder why I’m always black.

You never asked what I’ve seen,
For the scars, they told you where I’d been.

Stories they pour from my eyes,
Estuaries of black, on my chin they die.

Salvaged my soul, but the mirror it cracked,
And you wonder why I’m always black.

About the guest author

Anisha Ratwani

Anisha, part thinker, part wisher, lives in Mumbai, loves dogs and would rather write than talk
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