Thursday, December 22, 2016

A day, a week, a month
Or a year at best
And your memory won't haunt me,
The dark veins won't follow me to sleep,
The betrayed eyes won't hunt me down,
Your feeble voice won't ask questions,
The smell that you wore for 11 months, 
the blood that you puked, tears that you shed
The sound of cough that kept you awake,
Won't knock my doors anymore,
I will walk away from all of it,
Disowning the womb which I put on pyre.

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