The Bedroom

The piles of that dust would fill your eyes
Dust of that mountain of hurt
Which stooped her soul
Day and night,

That dressing mirror would vomit out tears
Which she cried out when she decorated
Making up her face with coloured masks
To seek a tinge of romance
Left Unadmired

That silence would deafen you
Muting her screams of pain
Confining her, demeaning her emotions
Her moods don’t matter

That floral, spick and span bedsheet
Telling tales of those nights
Lonely, dispassionate, uncrumpled
Her Jasmine skin longing
To merge with his musk

There should be an NGO
For the women unloved

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