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.