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FLOWER ON THE WALL

I get up
from the filthy bed
and crawl
until I hit a wall,
Sitting
and leaning on it,
my feverish body
shakes violently
protesting,
of how cold
the walls to my back,
but it is somehow
soothing,
it gives me
temporary relief,
from the burn marks
of warmth
I once trusted.


Each second
that passed
weighs heavily
on my eyes,
But I won’t sleep,
‘I won’t sleep again’.
I chant.


On the window
the moon peeks,
I lose count
of days
with all these
drug-induced sleep,
But it is not
the unknown drugs
that weakens me,
but the mixed of
the instilled trust
in my blood,
the lust-filled veins
of my uncle,
and the fact,
that I’m a woman.


I heard
the door opened
downstairs,
and the familiar laughter
that terrified me
for days,
but what surprised me is
the laughter
from new voices
could terrify me more.


My fingers trace
the crack
on the wall,
And on its end,
I draw a flower,
I smile at myself,
thinking,
am I the only one
who offered a flower
on her own grave?


©ariachez
apr272018

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