She burned herself

In the quest of the unknown.

Someone called “him”

And hysteric conversations at odd hours

Of the night.
She screamed.

Exploded in tears and fresh sweat.

“I see him.”

She was comforted, by mother and father alike.

“But, there is nobody.”
She would know, 

By the ticking of the hour hand.

When it strikes 4 

And everyone is in a slumber deep.

He would make her scream.

Yet not letting her take his name.

She would call out,

“It’s him, it’s him.”

“Save me, it’s him.”

But his mention is silenced by the tear of her dress
And the blanket that lays slumped on the floor.

He leaves just as the hour hand strikes again.

And she knows it’s time.
When she would gather her gown lace,

Wrap it around her hands

And muffle her scream into a ball so made.

When she should sit in the blanket.
Too afraid to drag her naked, 

Scratched frame any further.

When she has to start accepting,

Yet another morning

That she ignited this war.


Colours Of a Colourless Being

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I climb and climb an endless spiral.

Up it goes, shallow my breath grows.

Knocking every door on the floor,

Behind my shadow, my energy fades and despair follows.

Open, please, I want to shout.

But he follows my footsteps closely.

I cannot think about.


He’ll catch me sooner or later,

He warns.

The chase falls, I think he’s left.

But to my horror, there he stands.

Right in front of my face, his fingers hang.

They raise alarm, fibres of my being panic.


He has grabbed me, please someone open the door.

Help me, I yelp.

All in vain, his fingers jostle me by my shoulders,

Torture slowly ascending to my neck.


“you’ll face it tonight, the worst you have known, the most you have feared, you’ll face it tonight.”

With a hollow warning, that nobody heard, I descend.


Falling through and endless dreary maze,

I land on a pinching yellow.

I’ll brace this I assure myself,

The hold on my neck grows bold.

I grab on the memory to hold.


I am in a yellow dress, waiting for my teacher’s address.

My name called out, I step forward,

Walking up the staircase I swallow, stage fear rushes through me

But I am ready, the feeling’s heady.


A hand, pale, approaches me,

A handshake, I anticipated,

Was really a masked apology.

“I am sorry, you’ll have to wait for your turn,” he informed,

“There’s another recitation before yours”, offering an explanation.


I walked through the dark corridor,

Tied in an unspoken pact.

Silence ensued, for a fact.


The room was crimson with the costume themes.

People rush out in cliques and consortiums.

“you’ll have to wait here for a while”

You then start to hum.


We are sitting next to each other,

In a room absent of any other presence.

Your hand slowly sets on my thigh

I move further.

A hand pushes me from the back, another, grabs my thigh, in a swift motion.

My pale fingers, quiver and push relentlessly.

All to vain, my arms are already scratched rosy.

I shout and cry, yelp and cringe.

Forehead bleeds through my fringe.


My beautiful yellow skirt

Is now an inflamed red.

Like an evening growing darker with the sunset.

The bruises span, an uneven assortment.

Violet, they grow as I come to terms,

Marks still holding strong.


Swallowing hard, up fast,

I stand as I hear my name from somewhere far.

It’s my turn to recite.

Lost on the exuberant enthusiasm, I drag my frail

To the stage.


There are people, laughing at my torn yellow dress, my pale scratched skin,

And my blue – violet flesh.

I scream my broken heels screech.


“Wake up, wake up, it’s alright”

“I’ll never let the bruises dry”


Two voices coincide.

Both, with my name at the end, they die.


I choose the former from my mother,

Not having a choice.

At night, I’ll yet again revisit,

To the skirmish declared fruitless.

Again I’ll be branded,

The being now colorless.