worn by the weather

she is swimming in an ocean of pain and sorrow.
she feels parlous when you stare at her with those malicious eyes.
she walks down the street with shuddering fear running through her veins.
yet, she smiles.

she was only eight when she was targeted by your nefarious intentions.
was it imperative?

she is in a sea.
a sea comprising shrieks and screams.
the waves keep thrusting her and
existence seems like a burden
because she grew up thinking we were equally sensible and equally half-witted.

ma asked her to cover herself up afraid of having her daughter's breasts ogled.
respect at stake.
clad in a sari,
yet all eyes glued to the tattoo on her collarbone.

that night, she was hoodwinked and hurled on his bed.
his unwanted grasp on her waist.
she did not want to.
he did it anyway.

she tried showing affection;
he threw her emotions into turmoil.
she whined; she groaned.

kept on beseeching.
to no avail.
her four year old heard her screeches.
he wept.

"do you think I enjoy being in agony?" she asked.
scared stiff to raise her voice.
bombarded with complaints.
his doltish character provoked her to slap him.

a truckload of exasperation, resentment and pain.
fuck the glass ceiling
fuck the smiling.
she yelled.
eventually, the undertones were audible.

taking a deep breath in, 

I belong to me.

to the shards of the mirror I threw a rock at. 

she roared.

              - isha