A poem i wrote on growing up some time ago

I'm looking at my hands from a fortnight, 

I look at them night after night.

When I do this something bugs in my eyes, 

A small cut on my finger telling thousands of lies.

Growing up I used to see the same cut on other ladies, 

And used to tell myself I won't be like these careless ladies. 

But this cut has manifested itself on me , a little red cut that just won't heal.

The cut taunts me as if saying, "little miss is growing".

It haunts me with whispers of working, and bowing.

Oh little cut, I'm gently telling you to heal, 

And be soft , radiant to feel.

                                                              ~Hramya sagar 

Growing up is beautiful and at the same time very tiring 🌸