30 and a bit bitchy, she is kind
to the people who digest her
verbal abuse. In bright, tight kurtas
and kgs of gold, shiny like a bulky treasure chest
with inviting engravings- like the inside of Taj Mahal
before the white folk disrobed it- she
works in the advertisement industry.

A slave driver, she demands fat cake
and throws lavish parties-invitation only
and basks in the mood lighting of posh
restaurants...but she is bleak and dim inside;
thoughts of escape enter her otherwise
sealed pores(courtesy of foreign five step
day and night creme)in the lonely nights-
divorced- she dreams her large bed is
occupied by a mills and boons type of guy...
she needs inner healing..countless trips to
ashrams with diet restrictions and promises
of sexual enlightenment-
she is tired, so tired of barking orders,
appeasing stupid clients, of 8 am traffic and the 2 am power naps...

She secretly longs to be the housewife-
cooking, cleaning; waiting for the children
to return filthy with playground stains and smells,
waiting for the husband who demands
hot dinner and snores in his sleep- so
uncharacteristic(she is shocked at herself)

Then, she remembers the bras burning
and the slut walks- for all this freedom,
this power- she sees the illusion and
she has reached the edge of the simulation.