There is something indecent in the way she covers her body.
Veins are sliding against the thick undertones
of her pale skin, a bone on her elbow and peeks of hair
unnecessary but unshaved, all are paving to her chest,
filled with oxidants from things not inhaled.
There, sitting on the edge of the placenta where she lives,
a beating story (bloodied but beating) that is
floundering some magma into the ventricles of her joints.
Further down, a killer pain, lying face down
but it has no face, crying because it is tired of
stretching all the time.
The tears smell like cadavers of things she never consumed.
A rope, snaking into the folds of birth,
it is clutching onto oxygen. Oxygen –
from two bloated bags that look just like her,
polluted in the gaps between strengthening and surrendering,
they are expanding and contracting and
reminding her of human. Grimacing.
Down, down her hips are speaking, listen,
they are talking, swaying,
wet, linen sheets are piling between this cave
but her legs are growing, her legs are twisting
until there is nothing in between but the same
blood, tissue, nostalgia, corrupted cells, and vehemence.
Flimsy, soft and bones, that cradle her neck,
nothing short of clouding, creaming, counting:
two swollen slaves sit on her chest.
Now up, up a tumor is blocking her eyes, her mouth,
this man speaks and the other man can see
but the tumor, a rounded-ugly-gigantic unwanted mass of cells
is blocking those nuances that separate her from her body.
Barred down, no silence stopping
there is something indecent in the way she covers her body.
I hope you like them.

Photo Credit: David Blackwell. Flickr via Compfight cc



Paakhi Bhatnagar

Paakhi Bhatnagar is a student from India and an avid reader of historical fiction. She is a passionate feminist and blogs about current politics and feminist issues. She also possess the uncanny ability of turning everything into a debate.

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