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 at those long terrifying nights, tears that you shed silently
The sound of cough that kept you awake,
Won't knock my doors or walk my memory lane,
I will walk away from all of it,
Disowning the womb which I put on pyre.

Two years and counting,
Who knew even memory will stab me, 
and hope ll bleed a little each day.

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