How can broken things be mended?
She has been living off the edge.
A ghost in the land of living.
She is a memoir,
Of the past.
Her body has scars,
And wounds from yesterday’s wars.
Grey ghosts peep from her dark eyes.
They have a story, unsaid and unheard.
The demons under the bed,
Are real.
She has seen them.
Yet no one believes.
No, she is not going crazy.
You haven’t lived her life,
Or else, you would also believe.
That broken things,
Could never be mended.
Is it easy,
To see your loved one’s hands,
Behind the dagger,
The finger which pulled the trigger.
Is it easy,
To have hope,
When everything is hopeless.
Everyone kept telling,
Not to be afraid of dark.
But they haven’t seen,
The shape darkness takes,
When it creeps in a vacant room,
And the claustrophobic feeling,
Of being trapped in a glass cage,
And feeling fear,
Such that voice chokes in her throat.
Trust her when she says,
Healing is a lie.
Scars never leave.
Trust her when she says,
Broken things,
Can never be mended.
©Namitaajayan
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