By: Neha Rose Roy
Aunty once said “stay out of the sun, no one will want a kali like you.” That was when I was seven.
Aunty didn’t see me move my stubby fingers across my cheeks as I wondered how to undo this curse sent from the god she so adored. The darkness of my skin soon resembled one stirring within me as I gazed into a reflection I grew to despise.
Aunty once said “if you eat anymore, you won’t fit through that door.” That was when I was eleven.
Her words constantly rung through my head as my stomach growled, begging for attention like a reality star with distasteful extensions. My hunger was soon consumed by exhaustion as I finally gave into the night, a plight I found myself in quite often after that.
Poison disguised as love frequently sought solace in my thoughts and life in my nightmares.
At last, I gave up trying to navigate through nightmares that had found form as life. I gave up trying to cure my imperfection more attached to me than “my loved ones”, who brought this plight upon me.
Now aunty has nothing to say while I’m fifteen and hanging by a rough rope, tied to a ceiling fan.
“I’m sorry, my love” Aunty finally says while she reads my last words, carefully laid down in the cursive she once despised.