At night, I dream I’m a bird in a room.

The room is yours, like the house, like the sun, like 
the man you want me to call Papa.

There are hands. His. Yours. Hands that push and sting and 
choke my body. My body, also yours.

There’s a mouth. I flinch when it calls my name. Everything is so ugly 
in the mouth, especially me.

It’s all for your own good, you say with kindness; 
your kindness also a mouth.

There’s a window. It lets nothing out, not even air.
In the room in my dreams, I sit by the window and sing to the moon.

Behind me, the old fan cricks and cracks and groans like an ailing ghost. 
I sing and sing, louder and louder, so I never look at it too long.

Pratiksha Ahuja is a poet based in Goa, India. She began writing as a child while growing up in a fractured home, using language to survive and to understand who she is. Her work holds trauma, love, rage, and an irrepressible wonder for life. Themes explored often include self-identity, feminism, climate, and politics