#101

untamed yellow thorn creeps over an abandoned bed. she threw her ballet shoes in the bin. all she wears now is a defaced womb that bleeds most days.

his heart is a triangle of newsprint. Kargil ’99. some chewed off tribune’s orphaned page. rain lacquers with moss shared metres of checkered floor now.

even the pinned butterflies have left.

©Mohana Das

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12 thoughts on “#101

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