Friday, 15 May 2015

She sits there like a quiet wooden doll, a personal puppet
With her eyes cold and dry; the curve of her lips a straight line,
Sitting there in the clothes they gave her, now all she has to do
Is stay as quiet as possible and it would be over so soon;
They came in with their knives and cloth; heating the wax to a high degree
And spilt it on her skin, little by little; she hid the frown on her face
Ignored the chatter of thoughts inside her head; waited as they ripped
The cloth off her skin; ask if this was a part of her she wanted to save
Or would she rather be without? Too late, the decision had already been made
Before she could think all the things she can think now;
They bent her legs up and down, asked her to turn over,
The wax reached places other people were not allowed to touch
It was bad to feel pleasure there, but it was okay to get this hurt;
Closed her eyes to feel better; but all she felt was the movement of a
Puppet doll, now her arms are raised, the way they are after a winning
Cricket match; now they are sticking to her sides, all timid and closed;
Now she opens her hands and passes them forward; each part is
Dripped with wax; each part ripped apart; she can feel the sticky itch
As the wet towel runs over, offering comfort to the wounded body
It is amusing to think it would make her feel better; she tells
Herself that one fine day it will stop to hurt;
Till then she must sit quiet, she must bear
The cost of looking beautiful.

No comments:

Post a Comment