When down in the depth of despair, and depressed
You write, you sing, you create, to impress
But have you ever wondered, the lost power of your words
Sometimes, less is more and more is less
Daily you cry your silent song
You wail, you weep from dusk to dawn
Then you dust yourself and put your mask on
Coz at all costs, the show must go on
“He touched me here. He groped me so roughly, it hurt.” said Renu
“It was scary” shared Vinita. “He used to shut my mouth so that noone heard the screams”
Ritika looked around the room. She didn’t identify with any of the women. Or their stories. In fact she pitied them. Sympathised with their miserable existence. She wished she could help them or relate. But she couldn’t.
She was never abused. She was loved. Adored. So what if she was 8 and he was 38. She was in love. And if it was ok for the prophet, why wasnt it for everyone else?
Let’s end the session here, she suggested in her usual micromanaging tone. Ofcourse she wanted to be in control. She was used to it. She was always in control. Wasn’t she?
Can someone fucking care. Please.
Swooosh… I go through plants and trees
A wind, a tornado, a gentle breeze
Deftly from one intensity to another
I switch between with utmost ease
Sometimes sans control, sometimes at will
Sometimes the victim, at others, ready to kill
I swooosh through my days without a care
Like a bad habit or a mandatory fire drill
Sometimes I agree I stick to the norm
I’m music and love and cool when you are warm.
But then I flare up… With intensity doubled
I fight… I cry… I kick up a sand storm
When will I stop moving? This wasted life who will see?
Shadows of my memories, volcanoes of my past
Trap them, destroy them or let them be?
After all, aren’t they just versions of me!
Don’t leave me, don’t go, don’t let go of my hand
Don’t stand there, far away, and lie that you understand
The pain, the trauma, the agony I go through
The fear that daily this list will have something new
Something black. Something grey. Something dense in every way
Something hard. Something sharp. Something mean that on and on you harp.
The pain will go. The trauma will pass. Tomorrow I’ll be a new lass.
Happy as a button. Talking nineteen to the dozen
Enjoying the day… Come whatever may
Until, “… Then what was the big deal…” I hear you say!
Broken people we are
Lying scattered on the floor
Like pieces of a puzzle
Or the socks my dog tore.
Lay them out in order
Pick the best pieces
Patch them together
To form a complete us.
The rest of the bits
To keep or to throw
Or make another person
With the same core.
Why do I do this to myself? Over and over and over and over again… Like a giant wheel that refuses to stop. I see the same sights. Sights that once enticed me with the adrenaline rush of being something new, good bad or ugly… Today kill me with the repetitiveness. One would think that I’d be numb to it by now… Like an album song that suddenly becomes viral and is literally everywhere including as the background score to your dream.
But no… I’m not numb. I’m still affected. And badly. But yet I do nothing to change it. Or maybe I do, but I don’t do enough. It’s like I enjoy the torture.
Be is being affected by other’s comments or opinions, finding abusive partners, making plans and failing… Everything is on loop mode. Like the playlist you once created on your old ipod that you’ve been too lazy to change and now the familiarity breeds as much contempt as it does happiness.
Should stop. Should say enough. Until then, let the masochist in me enjoy. Sorry girl. He wins again.