My arms crossed to stop the
Bubbling cesspool of blood
After the attacks on my soul
My body cries out in protest.
Hours go by in mindless pallor;
My heart is a cracked fossil on
Nicotine stained tiles
They say – “Throw the napkin away”
But the woven plant holds my history,
I wish to frame it, watch the memories
Repeat themselves. There – my broken limb,
There – my thumb sticking up in mock joy.
Here – they tore me apart.
Here – Petals of boxed-up rage
Lead to shouts in the living room
Followed by another ceasefire.
Crowd up on my doorstep –
I cannot look at them,
My fingertips singe when it touches the phone.
Inadequate, Unworthy – liberty
Is watching the blood drip through
My fingers. Now clean
Finally, utterly – clean.
About the Poem
Today (21st of September), I read the news about this horrible event. No, event is definitely not the right word to use here, but it is nothing other than shocking. This is a fictionalized poem, I have no other words to say. I pray that nobody, nowhere in the world, should ever go through anything like this.
About the Author
Sulakshana Guha is a sixteen-year-old writer based in Bhopal, India. She enjoys reading, painting, and going on the lookout for potential dogs to pet. She has poetry coming up in the Plum Tree Tavern.
That’s so tragic. The world needs more voices like you.
Thanks for sharing this beautiful poem ❤️