History

Home to violence, back to sadness ,
refraining myself from surrendering,
to the hate seeping through every vein,
the relaxing tune of the chime, let it ring again.

The daily routine, the whipped cream,
souring and tasteless, bitter like pain,
An eerie silence on the table, silence of the lambs,
To be butchered yet again, whipped cream...

Days pass uneventfully, nights are starry,
Dreamy, trippy, sleazy, its ok, I do it now,
Erotic nightmares, shunting the cries, its ok,
I will pull the trigger, I sometimes threaten him , and its ok.

And now I see her, all through my head,
so beautifully lovable, made so pretty, for me,
And love erupts, from where I don't know, it doesn't hurt,
And I am swimming in blissful passion, she's all I need.

And I wake up everyday, like the purposeful man,
To sleep once again, on my bed all warmed,
And days pass faster than ever before,
occasional glimpses into those eyes, those charming sad eyes.

And the cries return, like painful nightmares,
glimpses into the past, scurrying with intensity unknown,
hatred all too familiar, context fuzzy, unclear,
like all that I have come to know, from those eyes I now fear.

Those eyes, that threaten with cold-blooded passion,
all too familiar, that glaring look, the bitterness, the hatred, and the helplessness
and I know what had made him what he was,
and what I was then and what I have become.

And I give him the gun, no other way,
He pulls it back all the way, every millimeter
resounds with the cry of a generation of whip and cry,
the shot released, the bust is burst, the end is near,
Son, I hope this is the end of my worst fear.


Kartiek Agarwal, on female domestic abuse