The Soul is Genderless

I wear a decent saree 

but my soul is naked,

scarred by the knives of your ignorance,

my wings torn off by malevolent hands,

my blood drunk in fancy glasses.

Mixed with beer,

I float in the foam.

You ingest me,

You take over my identity;

and my bangles ring like temple bells 

when I wash the utensils,

when I repeatedly switch TV channels,

searching for a story that does not exist,

for it was murdered before it was born.

I am not a woman.

I am an eternal soul blessed with potential

and assigned a purpose by my maker;

and I wait for a dawn

that will melt the shackles

that I wear on my arms,

and soak off the vermilion

that belittles my significance.