by Rajrishi Das
Mother cried when my Sister’s skin grew dark. Bled her tears like the Ganges they began to drift apart. Sister didn’t cry. She didn’t make a sound. But She forgot how to smile bit her tongue as She drowned. It didn’t really matter when my skin grew brown. Boys could afford to be ugly it wouldn’t hold me down. But I learned from my Sister that I could never cry so I watched my Sister bleed Stayed silent as She died. It was only when we found the bleach That we began to cry.