By Chandana

A strange smell took me to the basement,
a flight down a dozen stairs,
into a chamber.
Oh! Wait, a room.
A mediocre room,
with no life on its walls,
or colour that adds spirit,
only apparent barrenness.

A four poster bed,
a creased sheet and
a few thousand stories to share.
Some with climax,
others incomplete.
The stories of stale night,
of oriented desires,
of disoriented emotions,
of satisfied love making,
of entangled bodies or
sometimes a process of giving manhood a boost,
or a flush to his ego.
All in one meagre room.
The tinkle of anklets,
laughs, cries, moans, groans,
pain and joy.
Leaving no space for my sighs.
I stood, fixated, feeling every vibration.
The crumbled sheet had stains,
of leftover hope,
of semen overflowed,
of blood gone waste,
of hers, of his.
I felt strange.
It wasn’t home.
It was the basement,
of my home
Yet it seemed,
not a part of my asylum.
It was chaos, just chaos, utter chaos.
It was innocence abused.
Big blood shot eyes gape at me;
clothes in shreds,
her breast peeping
her, hair astray, her lips bled,
It wasn’t once, but for days, for months.
Not just him but many like him,
who relished on her innocence
and let their demons feast.
The porcelain which made her perfect
actually turned her into a listless figurine,
beautiful, desirable, and oh so feminine.
Oh ! So feminine…