What was that?

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: True Confessions  |  House: Booksie Classic
Comparison is a needle, if sewn with a positive thread, would bestow a Mellowed soul.

Submitted: June 28, 2020

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Submitted: June 28, 2020

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Aghast was the feeling within,
the moment I heard saying,
“The grudge in me never ceases,
If I look at you, it upsurges.”
What was that? Hatred or Jealousy?

Together we grew,
Together we played,
Together we enjoyed,
But she was loved more.
What was that? The age or Comparison?

Appreciated for her appearance,
Admired for the best smile,
Pampered for the sweet talks,
Gradually grew the inner bitterness unaware,
Igniting in her, the spark of arrogance uncompared.
As I was placed ever in contradiction.
What was that? Seed of praise or despise?

The child in us possessed the love,
while in the name of maturity the gap stretched,
The silence took deep breaths
Between each conversation
We, the alike thinkers
Now parted with difference.
The daughters of two sisters,
Misunderstanding cultivated the distress.
What was that? Distance or Belief?

The question still perplexed
Whose fault was that?
The childhood innocence ripped with arrogance?
Or
The comparison that planted the vengeance?
But ultimately, it is the misconception established with pride.
Now after these many years,
the love in me for her never faded
but grew more when we by chance interacted.
What was that? The pure love or move on?

Having the belief that our thoughts were alike,
My heart ceased not to pour my inner feelings,
As my childhood pal, my sister, my twin.
But still the ignorance in me continued to control,
My maturity to understand the completely changed person.
It took sometime to get in my senses
that her eyes looked hither and thither
with lies unrelated,
and conversations proposed,
not to share but to grasp
whenever connected virtually.
What was that? A changed self or Gossip Monger?

The vengeance inside gradually
turned to revengeful remorse.
And the love had turned to blame,
With pierce striken words she poked
Of accusations and falsehoods,
But none seemed to disturb me.
What was that? Mellow in me or Her immaturity?

With composed tone, I did stand for me,
confidently, a new me,
neither raised my voice,
nor reacted losing my poise,
but assured that in her life,
“Never could she forget to remember me and never, remember to forget me.”
What was that?
A blessing from a mellowed soul.

- Aishwarya Sridhar


© Copyright 2020 Aishwarya Sridhar. All rights reserved.

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