Puppet Show

I woke up in the middle of the night

Trying to rub of the day’s ink from my grimy hands.

I wrote and I wrote and I wrote

Words that emerged from inside my sleeves

I made everyone uncomfortable

They cringed at a destroyed, loose woman

Sketching page after page

An allegory of a pointless, meaningless life.

No children,

No husband.

Oh they’ll say,

No children,

No husband.

But atleast she died writing.

 

So I try to tumble off higher grounds.

I find a spot that is so easily missed,

That I disappear into the air right where the sky meets the cement.

And my skeleton floats in the air,

And my flesh flattens the pavement.

My blood colours everything that no one else bothered to colour.

Thud.

 

 

 

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