Namrada Varshini

Thighs bleeding
five days a week,
with the so called impurity
everytime I'm shunned
out of my own kitchen
to not stench up
the holy place of God,
hanging my head in shame
with every drop of blood,
on the maroon bedsheet,
that cannot go in the machine,
hiding the polythene bag
with my dirty identity,
behind my back, from dad
behind the leaflets of newspaper,
the same man, who cried out in joy
with the birth of his baby girl!

Tears flowing from unbearable pain
only to be told by motherly women
that I'm a child bearing machine,
no privilege to complain
and this ain't real pain,
so I weep silent tears
in one gloomy corner of my room
curtains drawn in, to hide
my tear jerked face from the world!
I'm called filthy
for every underwear with a stain
I'm 22 years old and
I cannot scream out from pain
I call out my Lord's name
only to be met with a strike
cause I'm an unholy whore
a freak, the Lord wouldn't like,
now, whom do I turn to
to end this ache,
my God wont listen to me
cause I'm a bleeding mistake,
through dripping thighs and bloodshot eyes
I finally realize, this'll all end one day
when I'm six feet under
and out of the society's way!

This work has been published in Beetle Magazine's August 2020 Issue.

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