Little Body.

red-and-brown-paint-splatter-2030236

Ft. Nishtha Konwar.

 

Lying in her Bare Minimum,

Her Insides Growl –

In Revolt. She Hadn’t Tasted A Morsel,

Since Ages Now.

She Flickers Between Consciousness,

And Nothingness.

Slowly, The Darkness Starts to Dawn,

Once More. But She’s Determined,

To Cling On. For She Knows,

She Might Never Come Back,

If She Does Let Go.

Every Breath She Inhales, Feels Like-

Drawing Fire, Straight From,

Mother Earth’s Fiery Core.

As if She’s Only Fueling a Raging Fire,

That Slowly Devours Her Own Bloody Soul.

She Licks Her Parched Lips, Gently. Barely,

Holding Her Bruised Eyes, Open-

As She Stares Onto that Dreadful Door.

He’d Visited Her Today.

In the Morning Or-

Was It the Noon?

Time had No Place in This Room.

For She Had Long Lost its Track,

And Surrendered Herself –

To A Timeless Existence.

Only When He Came In,

Did She Start to Count –

The Seconds, on Her Skeletal fingers.

Her Nails- Bloodied. Bruised. Broken. From-

Scratching Futile Prayers,

On the Hard, Stone Floor.

She Wonders If It Really Is,

Worth Fighting Death Anymore? Wonders,

If It’ll Someday Be Her Messiah,

Who’s at the door.

It’s Only Hours Since He Had Gone.

And Yet again,

The Wicked Wooden Door, Parts –

To Reveal A Ray of Morning Hope,

That Coldly Ricochets,

Off the Cuts, Burns, Stabs, Slashes,

And Slyly Escapes. For It Knows,

If It Lingers Any Longer,

Shall It Be Devoured,

By the Darkness,

Like her. For-

It Too Is No Savior,

But a Survivor. Like Everyone Else,

It Flees as The Devil Walks In. Casting –

It’s Evil Shadow,

Upon the Sad Remains of Her Tattered Body.

Covered in Red. Blood. Like A Wounded Animal,

That She Was.

More Dead Than Alive.

A Little body, Slogging-

On the Cold, Hard Floor. She Looks Up,

To See A Monster Licking –

His Fangs at the Sight of His Frail Prey.

As He Gets Down on his Knees and Caresses –

His Little Maiden’s Head, Her Innocent Eyes,

Meet His Gaze. She Desperately Hopes-

To Find the Loving, Candy Sharing Uncle,

He Once Was, Hidden Somewhere,

In His Cold Stare. But in Vain –

As He Quickly Looks Away. Ashamed.

“My love”, He Says,

As He Slides His Hand Down Her Hair,

Onto Her Bosom. And Sets Off –

About the Same Sinful Ritual,

Once More.

She Wants to Snicker in Disgust,

But He Had Left Her Jaw, Broken.

As a Small Token-

Of His Appreciation, For the Fight-

She Put Up the Last Time.

She Couldn’t Dare-

To Do It Again.

So, She Shuts her System out,

As He Enters Her.

Forces Her Eyes Down Tight, And Counts –

Back from 660, 659, 658…

As She Clenches onto Lost Faith.

Praying Yet Again-

For the Savior,

That Never Came.

She Used to Count a 1000,

But Then the Fact Dawned:

Unlike Her, His Manliness,

Puts up A Rather Frail Stand.

Ironic, She Thought. Is It Really Worth,

The Humongous Ego,

That This Little Motif of Masculinity Holds?

She Doesn’t Think So.

At 300, The Pain Numbs.

Thankfully, He’s Done. The Devil Departs.

The Door Comes to a Close. The Darkness Reigns.

And She Is Back in Her Solemn Solace.

And For Yet Another Day,

She Survives On.

–  Ish.                                    

 

 

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