Uneasy, I go outside,
To which he stands by the window.
I await,
And smoke a cigarette.
I await,
For his slumber.
Perhaps tonight,
Unlike all other nights,
The voices from within,
Those that scream in unison,
Would stop.
The wound,
That near my pelvic bone wouldn’t ache.
Perhaps tonight,
I would lay,
But alone and,
Not he, on top of me,
Or pushing me to the walls;
Those that hold our wedding photographs.
And those that mock at me,
As I try to escape them;
Every night, and all the evenings.
I await,
And smoke my cigarette,
To which, he holds my hand,
And drags me to our bed.
Our bed? No, I tell a lie.
More to myself,
And a little more to the world.
His nails, undressing me;
Both of my clothes,
And of my soul.
In and out, in and out,
He goes into me.
Stop, I want to say;
But he goes on and on,
From dusk till dawn.
And when I scream,
He laughs and rejoices at his victory.
I wake up,
Lying next to him,
Naked and my body burnt, in ashes.
Quivering, I cook him breakfast.
And iron his sleeves.
While in between my bedsheets I look,
Sometimes red and sometimes black;
Of sindoor and of smudged kohl.