At Least in the Stories I Don’t Lie

My struggle with relationships,

I realise

Is not my struggle with you

Nor is it your struggle

With me.

My struggle I realise 

Is with myself. 

In wanting to look good in your eyes

I put on a mask

And smile

I add my laughter to yours

Even as I question why?

I do things that

I had promised

To never do

And then wonder – 

Would you have objected

Had I refused?

To have you visit on my birthdays

And I visit you on yours

To wish each other 

Season’s greetings

And lend a helping hand

At times;

For those small moments of togetherness

I give up 

A lifetime of me being mine.

My struggle 

I realise is not with you

Nor is it with the social mores

Not even with the culture

Or the nation or the state or my home.

My struggle I realise

Is with myself.

My struggle is

In wanting to conform

In not knowing my own self

Or my desires or dislikes

In not having the courage 

To ask, express, rebel, request;

In not having

The courage to take flight.

Mote after mote the pieces

Scatter

Carried away on the beams of time

Atom by atom I lose

Myself

Till I no longer know 

What’s me or mine. 

“I should have”, “I could have”, 

“I wish”, “What if” –

Thoughts endlessly 

Fill the mind

I daydream, I imagine, 

I weave stories of joy

Because, at least in the stories

I don’t lie.

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