Do you ever feel asthmatic?
Not in a physical way but a mental one.
Like the lungs of your heart are bursting with air but you still can't breathe.
Like you have a lot to say but no words to put it in.
Like you want to pull your hair and scratch your skin but all you can do is stare.
Do you clench your fists hard then? And grit your teeth harder?
Do you feel your eyes popping out of their sockets?
Do you get goosebumps then?
Because, I do.
Almost too often.
Call me when I’m dead,
Don’t wonder how I’m doing, wonder what killed me instead.
Ask me if everything is okay,
When I’m not around to smile my way out of the conversation everyday.
Shake your head,
Regret my death,
Think of all the ways you could’ve saved my breath.
Shed a tear,
One here and a few more there,
Wonder why I frantically cut my hair.
Know that I’m dying everyday,
More and beyond the usual death you fear.
It's starting to make much more sense now.
All the songs you sent at 1 am, the ones I never even bothered opening because I was too busy.
Your obsession with art that portrayed nothing but death and destruction.
Your jokes about killing yourself that we passed off as “ dark humour “.
You drifting away in your own world and us seeing that as just another one of your phases.
Your constant last minute change of plans and “ you guys go ahead. I don’t feel like it. “
All those times we asked you how you were and all those curt ‘I am fine’s that never made us ask further.
It all makes much more sense now.
Now that you’re gone.
"It's fine", he said as he grazed his fingers down her thighs and up her skirt
"I won't hurt you", he said as he caressed her skin with his rough thumb sending shivers down her spine
"I'm family", he said as he rubbed her chest that heaved with panicked breaths and muffled her cries
"Trust me", he said and trusting him was the only mistake she had ever made
I still hate how the sky bathes in a burning hue,
all shades of red on a canvas of blue,
I hate how it makes my stomach churn,
my eyes burn,
all the while reminding me of you.
-A poem to the guy who explored my body and killed my soul,
while I begged for him to let go,
on a sunset, I'll forever know.
I sit on my toilet seat,
legs uncrossed but guts wrenching at 5km/hr speed,
staring at the blood stained ******* by my feet,
wondering why merely being a woman makes me bleed.
"Shame, shame, shame", they huff,
as if being a woman was not a burden enough.
Bleeding in shame is now considered religious,
no matter how natural,
For us, 'the time of the month' is never auspicious.
I sit on my toilet seat,
with sore thighs and a pungent stench in the loo,
wondering if it would be as shameful
If men bled the same way as women do.
— The End —