Thursday, October 10, 2013


She was worse than dead,
Or so they told her.
Defiled, impure, plundered...
Worse than dead.

Her life was now torn into
before and after:
she had coffee with her colleagues,
baked brownies with her niece,
wore his favourite colours.
she drank sympathy at tea breaks,
bored her niece with her silence,
wouldn't meet his eyes.

Worse than dead.
Should I just kill myself
to make it better, she wondered,
Standing at the brink of the cliff,
the wind yowling in her ears,
the cold scalding her skin.
Maybe then the ice would thaw
and the birds would sing....
Deep in thought, she slipped
into a dreamless slumber,
The razor in her hand.


Musadhique Kottapramban said...

great poem,
But the solution should not be self anihilation..

Jinju said...

@musadhique: Thank you :) I totally agree that suicide is not the solution. But my intention while writing this poem was to truthfully depict the turbulent state of mind of a rape victim.