From the 13-year old Odhisha girl

By – Gayatri Agarwal

Waiting for transport, I saw the police,
Saviours I thought;
Little did I know;
That lift would bring four months of rot.

My father I thought was my King,
But turns out,
He’s not even worth being called a human being.
Was being from the tribal community a sin?
Because those men in uniform always had a grin;
Which made me feel like a waste bin.
Do our lives not matter?
My soul feels wholly shattered.
Was I born to keep those men entertained?
It’s like my body was utterly chained;
Then I realized;
I live in a world where exploiting & power have always gained.

Imagine a 13-year old having a foetus;
Yes, that’s how desperate was their p*nis;
But how do I blame them?
When I couldn’t even look at my father without shame.
But I don’t want you to remember my story as;
A girl who went from a fair to her worst nightmare;
But as the one who survived even with so much to bear.

Published by penfluky

Writing is not a skill acquired through practice. Not for us, at least. Writing is a phenomenon that occurred to us when we wanted to shout our thoughts out. It happened when our brains formed a labyrinth of thoughts with no way out. The only way was to break the walls, the walls we constructed in our minds—the walls which stopped us from letting ourselves out. We broke the barriers using the mightiest weapon, the pen. Writing was our way out of that maze. Words and sentences flowed like a stream of some river, which consisted of A2Z instead of H2O. Soon the river filled the brain and the labyrinth was not visible anymore.

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