I bite.
Not with teeth.
with silence,
with sharp glances,
with walls built higher than your reach.

I’m not cruel.
I’m just tired
of being kind first
and torn apart second.

You call it attitude.
I call it armor.
Because being soft
never saved me.
It only made the fall hurt more.

So I speak less now.
Agree less.
Trust less.
I pull away before someone has the chance
to walk out first.

It’s not that I don’t want love.
I’ve learned that even “I care about you”
can come with conditions.
Even soft hands
can leave bruises
you can’t see.

I bite
because once,
I didn’t.
And it nearly broke me.

Dear dad,
Your contagious beams,
Spread through my body,
Infect my cheeks.

You reflect the day-
The soul of a child,
In the body of a man-
Life's not kind.

Yet you shine,
As a movie critique,
With zero dad ***,
And a good physique.

However busy,
You may be,
You leave it all aside
For our family.

Very grateful we must be.
Not all heroes are caped, you see,
Because dad,
You are our hero in a lungi!

Fully cooked batter,
Sprinkle of half-baked sighs.
A recipe of truth —
Never a lie.

Throw out the salt;
Add aged cheese,
A dollop of sugar,
A dash of chilies.

Don’t mention the sweat,
Nor the quiet cries.
Because
It’s the recipe of truth —
Never a lie.

Serve the truth,
Or leave it dry.
Maybe a pinch of water,
But never a lie.