I stitched my soul in borrowed thread,
A saree spun from words she said.
She spoke in sequins, smiled in ash
Her promises, a dopamine crash.
I matched her hue, her scripted glee,
While she rehearsed duplicity.
Three days drowned in bridal haze,
My books undone in cosmetic blaze.
No echo came, no tethered grace,
Just phantom friends in photo space.
She played wife to a borrowed man,
While I decayed in waiting’s span.
Her exit plan a lover’s whim,
My day reduced to shadow limb.
Even my blood boiled past its name,
A tongue unleashed in grief and flame.
Better no orbit than one that spins
With hollow crowns and plastic sins.
I learned:
Not all circles are sacred,
And not all smiles are kin.
This poem explores the emotional aftermath of a ceremonial betrayal — where tradition, performance, and borrowed intimacy unravel the speaker’s sense of self. It contrasts the glitter of social rituals with the decay of personal truth, and questions the sanctity of circles that exclude, erase, or commodify connection. A meditation on kinship, grief, and the cost of waiting.
