The pain in my chest

Good god! Who sought
The pain in my chest?
It was real. It was raw
The pain in my chest
I saw images I fought.
Reflect in the pain in my chest.

The pain in my chest. They come
Again. For me, I withdraw
To be half-mad is a game to me.
The pain in my chest. They said
It was gone. I chant again and again
The pain. The pain. My pain.

I want, I demand, I belong to it
Once again. On my own. I am drawn to it.
The pain in my chest. My chest.
Not yours. My pain. Step back!
I am trapped. It’s a trap! A trap.
My sweaty palm. Red eyes. White lips.
It’s a trap! A trap. Stay back

The pain in my chest is withdrawn.
I retreat. The pain in my chest is gone.
You spread a sheet on the floor.
A white sheet. Snow white. We befall.
Into dreams. Sweet dreams. I am gone.

The pain. My pain. Not yours.
Step back! It will not be poured out.
Like wine, cheap wine. My pain.
The pain in my chest is mine. They will come
They will see. They will go. They will say
To be half-mad was a game to her.
The pain in my chest. And she won.



There are some poems that can only be triggered by your past. This is one of them:

I have been a victim too…
Not in the traditional sense of the word
Some would even say that my kind of victim-hood
Is a privilege of the well-off
Exercising the rights offered to them through the toil of others
They demand off life the duty to pay their dues

In that sense I have been a victim, yes
From the walls of my bedrooms
In quiet corners of a raped land
I have sought retribution
Off a soil that owes me nothing.
For a people that see crimson
Bloodthirsty, scarred, desperate, aroused
My victim-hood has been a lie masquerading as the truth