A Shit-Hole Called Home

You will never know

how it is to stay in one

And never feel like home

Four walls, a door

and a few windows

A name plate with

Mr. and Mrs. Iyer

Letters shimmering

on a metallic background

Lovely couple,

people say

My teeth sparkle

but the tongue mocks at

my fake smile

There are dry scars

through which pain shears

and fresh bruises where

blood sporadically sprinkles

Abetting the burnt ecstasy

of my thighs

all well hidden under the clothes

and at places where no one can see

Peer at my naked body

you will writhe in pain

It is now a painting

of scars and marks

Little trinkets of

bad memories

which will accompany

to my last days

Tears trickle no more

for my body has become numb

As I excel in fakes

My face is veiled always

hidden under which

is a sea of pain

Sometimes when the masks tend to fall

and my bruises rise up against my inner wall

I have to glue it up fiercely

so the mirror does not know me wholly

for it is eternally ignorant

that my own luxurious flat

Is a morphed shit-hole

A sex slave reduced only to a sole

A Toy that is abused

beaten and thrashed

Death would be my eternal abode

in whose arms I shall reside in peace

Liberated, free from pain and burns

a solace for which my heart yearns,

A cold place where I keep my soul warm

and so fire beckons me to burn in it

But am I robbing my sisters of their future?

What will they be labelled hereafter,

should they too be branded a suicidal drifter,

Aah what fancy words,

elicited by fancy souls,

Truth is forbidden

Found in association,

residing with graves, 

deluding the earthly souls

Better be dead then, 

world brims with pain when.