Housewife

By Akshita Sharma

(TO WOMEN WHO POUR LIFE INTO US)

I've watched people call her housewife,

But she never married a house,

She married a man.

She married to find her place,

Though no one asks "Are you okay? "

She quiets cold wars with warm hands,

Yet no medals, no display.

Now, she only knows the clatter of

dishes,

And swallows her voice in dying

dreams,

She fights from dawn till night,

Just to keep home alight.

She married to keep herself alive,

But now her battles are lost,

Her silence becomes victor,

She lives within four walls- broom in

hand, dreams on shelves,

No petals beneath her feet’s, no

applause,

No crown upon her head,

Only dusty sweeps.

She longs to truly matter,

Yet she sighs into corners,

She threads a gentle smile,

Though her hands tremble under

weight,

And her heart wears a smile,

Just to mend the broken.

She longed for gentle eyes,

Eyes to remember her,

Not just to watch her,

But she met with fiery stares,

Burning with blame,

To dismiss hopes in tearing fights,

Still she stitches her heart,

Where love once lived.

She longed to ink love,

But chores were etched on fate's sheet,

She embraced her home with grace,

And she forgot to say no,

To relentless everyday chores.

Her wings got clipped,

And yet she crafts beauty of endurance,

Wearing her fatigue like a rare gem -

unseen, unpraised,

Still defining.

This is her story,

No crown,

No honours,

Just a home that breathes

Because of her.

By Akshita Sharma