Reiterating Agony

Observing, as she picks me up each day,

Her tears rolling down her cheeks, mucus, running down her nose.

Mixed with the water she pours on herself, head-first,

I witness her struggles, her dilemmas and her scarred body, worn-out by the whip marks.

In the cold and frosty early morning, I accompany her

To the watering hole where,

Her friends and she use me, filling me up with water, pouring it out and then,

Doing the same.

I hear her, as she cries and wails, looking at the archaic wall in agony,

As she curses and swears at her husband, looking at him with tired, yet frustrated eyes.

She pleads him to move his feet off of that shabby, torn rug, filled with dust due to neglect

He sits there, yawning, with a container of liquor, a blue towel around his waist, and kicks her

And as she falls and her head hits the mud pot laden with water,

“Fool” he screams, shooing all possible passers-by.

Looking away, this time embarrassed, she swiftly runs to the only place she finds solace

And taking off her blouse, her bony thighs, red due to pain, she hold me, and holds me tight

And I comfort her, doing my best to drizzle water on her excruciating wounds.

What happens next is something I don’t really know,

I hear her crying again, this time with the sounds of a zip.

As she left, wearing the only pair of heels she had, I knew it wouldn’t hold her high,

Her character would.

And as she walked out those creaky, old wooden doors,

I wondered, and thought about it for a long time,

I had seen her, her complete self, all stages of her, and they were mesmerizing,

And with this, I knew that it wouldn’t be her beauty that would grab people’s attention,

Her passion would.