Crisis

You tried washing it off like
Mud from your feet.
Without realizing –
It was more like a blotch,
Which, even after a proper wash
Had vestiges
Of what was, what had been.

Are you mortified of it?

Maybe it sears your throat
With the same intensity
Of an acid burn;
An open scar
A cruel reminder
A ghosting past…

Does it crumple you to the core?

Lingering on your skin
Like soft kisses, planted with carelessness;
You couldn’t wash it away,
Like the blood between your thighs
You wonder alone, scattered across –
What would it rather be?
An intact body?
Or a soul,
Emanating petrichor
From the first rains of Spring?

What would you rather be?

Modeled like a factory-made doll
Uttering words they put in your mouth
And thoughts (you were not made to think!
But even if you did)
That bore a varnish of what is supposedly
Right.
Pure.
True.

You couldn’t be.

So you were shamed
And called names.
Even in life,
Your body wasn’t yours to own
So to speak;
A mere cadaver, it was –
Lifeless and cold
To be dissected, or toyed
As they pleased
Like another specimen
In a morgue, wrapped in sheets.

8 November 2015

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