Read a tale of endurance, will & a daring fight against Covid. Click here for "The Stalwarts" by Soni Shalini.
Read a tale of endurance, will & a daring fight against Covid. Click here for "The Stalwarts" by Soni Shalini.

Meenakshi Shukla

Abstract

2.9  

Meenakshi Shukla

Abstract

Post Trauma Self Destruction

Post Trauma Self Destruction

3 mins
405


You know what they say

Good things don't last long

You already happened to know that, right

Sobbing, yet you won't let go off my hand.

As your tears trample down, your grip grows harder,

In an attempt to pull me out from beyond

And cry me back to life...

Sweetheart, it doesn't work that way,

And oh it hurts,

Unless you let go off me.


It's your second day

Without sleep, food and me....and common sense of course,

But you lacked it all along, didn't you...

Otherwise, you wouldn't have been

Having tears for water hoping that'll save you from dehydration! 

There's milk carton on the counter

Sitting since then, turning sour,

With your long hard gaze, 

Trying to spot my impressions on it.

No, you can't clone me like that even if you find them.

Technology has'nt reached that far as yet.

Avert your eyes. They're blood red scary now.


It's been a week

And you stink.

You have slept enough already,

Please take a shower for heaven's sake,

There are angels up here judging me hard.

Or will have to wake you up in my own spooky little ways.

The drawing room's a mess, a mess I've made

Before leaving for work that day,

I was getting late, okay!

Clean that up first without looking at the clothes lying on the sofa,

yes, they're expensive enough

To cost you some more weeks of yearning, more and more stinking, sleeping without eating,

And repeating it all from the beginning.


It's been a month

And you've finally shaved.

Beard doesn't suit you at all.

Looks as awful even from afterlife.

Thanks to your mom for getting that bee hive removed

And

Thanks to my mom for getting the apartment cleaned.

Darn it! She forgot the place behind the curtains,

Where lies plenty of half-finished cigarettes I had,

Hiding it from you, beside the room freshener spray.

Hope you don't spot them and worse: hope you don't think of finishing them one by one 

And even if you do

It's of no use, they're old enough to not taste like me anymore,

High chances you'll locate them,

Cause you break into Sherlock Holmes every once in a while,

Like the other day, searching for your ties in my already empty closet, you still managed to excavate my payals. I still don't know how.

Now, it's your everyday job of spending hours and hours,

Digging deeper into disappointment.

How many more soveneirs do you want to remember me with, I still wonder?


A year has passed by,

And your PTSD self seems to have dialed down a little bit,

Well, that's what I thought,

Just when the other night I saw you smiling in your sleep

Waking up to immense sweating and incessant sobbing, clutching the pillow hard

In a hopeless attempt of pulling me out from beyond

And crying me back to life...

But Sweetheart, it doesn't work that way,

And oh yes,

It hurts, a lot!

Unless you learn to live off this void

And let me peacefully rest by mine!


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