Color

Photo via Pinterest

I like the bright ones;

Pink, blue, maroon.

Sometimes I even go bold

And paint my nails yellow!

Mother hated the black phase;

Dad didn’t really understand the point of the nude one.

My brother still can’t believe

That I spend time and money on elaborate nail art.

But I like the colors;

They make my world bright.

Shiny, matte; I experiment with all of them.

Silver, gold; is there any color left?

I really can’t decide on a favorite.

 

The man outside the shop was waiting.

As soon as I turned to the empty alleyway,

I heard his footsteps hurrying behind me.

I heard his breath; raspy and uneven.

I smelt his smell; rum and cigarettes.

I felt his arms; strong and unyielding.

 

The struggle ended soon enough.

I didn’t expect to be this calm.

Stumbling, I reached the main road.

A woman passed by carrying a grocery bag.

She gave me an odd look;

I still had the rock in my hand.

 

Red, I think. That’s my new favorite color.

 

Note: An attempt at poetic “turn”.

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The Human Demon

Photo by Volkan Olmez

“You ruined me!” And with that, I demonized the human he thought he was.

His touch on my body felt like he was skinning me, bit by bit, ripping out my soul.

I screamed silently, choked on my own tears, felt trapped in my own body.

 

“But you belong to me!” He was flummoxed.

For what was his mistake, when all he did was something that was taught to him?

The shape changed again in my mind; I humanized the demon.

It was like breathing to him, wasn’t it? Ruining me, suffocating me, owning me in body and mind.

 

I couldn’t bear to love him, and yet, for what could I hate him?

 

Note: An attempt at prose poetry.

Eyes Speak

abuse

The innocence spoke through the eyes.

She didn’t have a clue.

Confusion spoke through the eyes too.

This wasn’t normal.

Hesitation spoke too.

Was she supposed to stop this?

Would she be able to?

She was a child and he was so huge.

 

The hands were strong and sturdy.

The intentions were clear too.

The eyes searched for the familiar.

The nice lady was nowhere to be seen.

Pain spoke through the eyes now.

He was hurting her.

Fear spoke through the eyes now.

She worked up a scream.

 

No sound came.

But the nice lady was there!

She detached herself.

And ran outside the waiting room.

“There you are!”

The mother caught her outside.

“What happened?”

No answer came.

 

“I got your chips. Look!”

No hand came up to take it.

“I’m hurt,” she said, “He hurt me.”

“Who? Where?”

The mother dropped on her knees to see.

The eyes full of concern.

She kept quiet.

The mother coerced more.

 

Gathering courage, she motioned.

No response.

Thinking that mother didn’t understand,

She motioned again.

Silence. A pause.

“Who?”

“Uncle X.”

Another pause.

Then: “Hush, child!”

 

She was hurt,

Not physically this time.

“Don’t let your father hear this!”

The tears spilled on her cheeks.

What had she done? Was she wrong?

She kept asking herself this for years to come.

But she had learnt almost immediately

That she should keep silent.