I know the presence of Light outside
by its outline formed against
the door of my room,
a black rectangle, erect lengthwise
with Golden border.
It feebly reaches out
to me, I surmise,
its faded shade
splattered on my books
distinguishing their collective contour
arranged against the left
of my door to which
I never make any efforts
of letting myself out.
My head, usually, resting against
the cold of the floor
with my squinted eyes fixated above
in the attempt to make out
the shape of the ceiling;
sleep will only exacerbate
the Restlessness;
and I will wake up, opening my eyes
to this same old world
where people like him always win.
A wrong touch is not a scar
you can brandish as an accoutrement
for you are not rendered a war hero
even when it was your own body
that was violated, it was your own boundaries
that were transgressed;
you spread your legs wide
in an anticipation of True Love
but all you got was his daily frustrations
he thrust inside you with ruthless indifference,
it could have been anyone else…
It’s no Alchemy, a guy’s touch!
when it transmutes your existence
to a cheaper one;
you become well aware of
that swirling pit that forms
in the depths of your stomach,
you just try to stare the longest
at your own reflection in the mirror
without throwing up at your own image
with disgust.
A palm opens widely
to cup the blade of your shoulder
tenderly,
it sends a current down your spine instead;
this electricity is no Love’s kind,
no butterflies are involved here.
Rather, it’s more like
the entire horridness of your Past
flashing right before your eyes;
who said you needed sleep
to have nightmares, for you can live them
with your wide opened eyes
all the time by a mere stimulation
through an insignificant nudge of a finger
by even your most trusted friend
for you to remember
his pudgy hands with unreasonable callousness
running against your bare skin,
the foul stink of his rotting soul
exuded by his body.
You could have washed yourself
for a thousand sixty one times in just a day,
it never felt enough
and, now you are left
with a dreadful hallucination
which comes unannounced
that every hand is his,
that to be loved is to be disrespected
and to feel trapped.
