Frame

By Vani Bansal

A frame of wood hangs beneath my bedside

Empty as it may seem, it is full of a million choice

A million choices that could be made and hanged within the frame

or maybe the frame could be hanged as it is hanged onto the sharp nail

A frame made up of societal expectations hangs on the moral pedestal

and it is a ritual in our side to cut ourselves to fit within the painted frame

to stick our sleeves closer to our body and to cross our legs on a chair like a lady

to tie our hair with the restrictions perched upon us

and to sit with our back straight, our head high and our lips sealed inside

A frame that everyone wants to fit in

to glorify the plastered homes and the painted walls

but does the painting ever asked, if it would like to be framed into that glass

with no openings at the back and no air to reach herself

to be hanged onto the wall only to be able to peak from that dirty glass

By Vani Bansal