I write agony,
they call it poetry.
I write myself letters,
they call it fiction.
They see the books and call me a writer,
but all I see is a woman
loathing in her own blood—
a woman unable to speak,
too proud to ask for help,
still gathering the blood
dripping from the very hand
that refuses to heal.
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Author:
Meera Mere (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: November 15th, 2025 09:59
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 1
- Users favorite of this poem: Meera Mere
Offline)
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