Her demise shook the world And left an uprising in its wake. She was human but the world Obnoxiously called her a Dalit. Her Skin was marred with scars of The most gruesome kind but Little do you know, they were Her battle scars that she took To the grave. Her body, a Holy shrine was entered without An invitation but you are not Aware that her soul is purer Than yours will ever be. Her cache of memories will Be drenched with flashes of Hungry stares and lustful eyes But also warm hugs and gentle Smiles from her parents. Something that the Scrupulous media does not want To reflect upon. She can’t be A secret anymore; her caste Cannot be a hindrance anymore. She needs a powerful voice And we must give her one. As i recount this tale, I am suddenly this girl. I Consume her desires. I Am her soul and spirit. And, My fingers close in on against Each other and I take labouring Breaths. My throat feels like Huge amounts of sandpaper were Shoved into it. My eyes are watery And blood shot and all you do is Stare. My clothes are shredded And little rags are my only trustful Companions on my otherwise Naked body. A string of wounds Cover my arms and legs and you Whisper about how sordid a Scene this is. You mutter about Me being a victim but the truth is I am a warrior who survived an Intrusion that was not supposed To happen and yet, you back off From a growing crowd and wonder What you’ll have for dinner tonight, Leaving me there on the ground, Writhing in more than pain and suffering.
Lengthiest poem in the history of lengthy poems? This poem is solely dedicated to a **** victim who was not represented enough by the media because of her caste. I hope it leaves a mark on you and stirs you to action.