Metanoia.

In the time-worn canvas, 

A child’s doll

Rests 

With a crack in the face

Spiralling down, 

Aching muscles strewn aside, 

Disregarded.

The mind 

Becomes an archive 

Of old cassettes 

That used to play fancy lullabies 

But now smell of 

Spilled liquor 

And guarded smiles.

The most evidential part 

Of growing up is 

Realising 

You cannot always keep 

The ones you love.

The heart still remains a virgin.

Do not tell me that the blue-black blisters are not beautiful.
They are.

Whipped. Flogged. Next, thrashed.

Each of the crimson cicatrice writes about a battle I won. Each brown wound speaks the story of a brave girl who never gave up.

The scars no longer look ugly when I stand naked in front of the mirror. Because, I have started loving the hues, and along with them,myself.

Do not tell me that the burning craters are not beautiful.

They are.

I stand at the threshold wearing the same old , purple-green smile. 

Smile of victory. 

Smile of revenge. 

Smile of standing through the whole.

The heart bleeds.

It does.

But despite the thousand daggers that slits through or the million smithereens it breaks into, 

the heart still remains a virgin.