By Anchal Rathi
The trauma pulled the trigger.
Only when she was a minor.
The fingers that touched her body
Snatched every part of her glory.
Her innocence was questioned-
Just as the clothes she was wearing.
In a world which is fair as is,
Her feelings became unfair.
Claiming the title of ‘harlot’ as a trophy,
She gulped every second as a candy.
The eyes that once shined
Screamed and cried every night.
She was starving,
While the voices inside her were feeding
On the leftover self-esteem.
She ran and ran and ran,
Unable to take her stand.
Her heart froze.
Life felt like a bleeding rose.
She tried filling the void in the hole,
Carving a scar through her soul.
She punished herself,
Cutting deep into her flesh.
To her, the intensity was debilitating.
The blood looked comforting,
And the pain felt relaxing.
She was suffocating.
All people could see was
Her life was intoxicating.
Her wounds never healed,
Leaving her lips completely sealed.
She lived in a history of blood and tears,
Unable to see a future without fears.
She was stabbed with the misery of fright,
Trapped in the agony of life.
The thriller of her past was onboarding,
Leaving every feeling of living foreboding.
She believed she was born to be a disgrace-
Since when did she think
She would be living like a princess?
She looked at herself-
All she could see were the scars left behind.
Yet she never knew..
Scars were beautiful.