I could feel my impression sinking
In the bottomless abyss brimming with dashed hopes.
The beating of my
Eight year old heart anchored as I Watched the men of my motherland
Preying on my sinless body.
My throat was aching
After multiple attempts of letting out
an audible scream beckoning my
Father to take me back home in his
But no sooner my mind
Gave up on such hopes
As I could sense the
Wicked and unrefined hands
Over my bare skin.
What misdeed I was paying for, filthy men?
I was bewildered by the look of their faces:
How they found amusement in
Wounding my fragile bag of bones and blood.
And as soon as my sensitivity seemed
To sharpen, they killed it.
My mother used to say that
We all go back to our Creator after our pulses cease.
But ironically, I pulses ceased in the palace of my Creator.