MANSI GUPTA
No more grip marks on my neck,
Crimson stains on my forehead.
Stories changing with the colors of the sky,
My voices were always a “lie”
No more broken glass on the floor,
Bloodstains on the handle of the door.
Glares from the family,
As I show up in pantsuits.
Whispers as I leave the room,
About a life that is set to doom.
Isolation, realization.
No more forced hugs,
Covering your temper.
A life of working till dawn,
Paying bills on my own.
An apartment viewing the lights,
Quiet.
Eating delicacies in lands far.
No more traces of your skin,
Which makes breathing feel like a sin.