By Jaesryna Sachdeva
writing on a piece of paper,
some would render that just another poem.
but it was something she didn’t want anyone to discover,
she crumpled it with the same hands she’d used to write it.
then years passed,
years passed when someone passing by,
picked it up,
and opened the ball.
he tried to read it,
but the paper was wrinkled.
he tried to free it,
the words were all intermingled.
he tried in vain,
to straighten it out.
but the poet should’ve known some stains,
they never fade out.
he somehow read the poem,
maybe even misunderstood.
for the words were unclear,
because they’d been crumpled to hide the truth.
perhaps he would’ve understood had the paper been straight,
for the paper was still white before she splashed her ink on it.
do not hide your wrong,
for it will come back to haunt you,
it will come back to haunt you someday.
By Jaesryna Sachdeva
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