Saturday, 8 June 2013

il inno di morte, canta

hey Dear,
let me tell you about one of my days.

on that day, I don't even remember what time it is.
standing silently in a crowded train, I'm listening to some musics I can't identify from my old music player.
the train keeps rocking.
I have one arm reach upwards, holding to the hand bar to prevent myself from falling, and the other hand is gripping the band of my bag as an act of precaution.

it is silent.
I cannot hear anything aside the music thrumming against my eardrums.
but I can see my own reflection on the door's glass because outside there is pitch black.
so dark; almost without any glow of street lamps nor signs.

my heart feels empty.
I start to wonder, after a long time of pondering...
what exactly my purpose to live is.
what use I can be with this soul.

the reason why God let me be born.
I know nothing.

in a crowded train compartment,
in between my jumbled thoughts of incoherent musing,
I feel something.

in a crowded train compartment,
I sense a hand touching my backside.
it creeps upward, slips under my modest, knee-length skirt.
...slithers along my thigh.
...touching my crotch.

I hold my breath.

in a crowded train compartment,
of all people,
I meet a molester.

I want to scream.
I want to call for help.
but then it comes to me,
" what if this is the only way I can be much of a use?"

so I keep silent.

one night,
in a crowded train compartment,
I'm letting myself get molested by a stranger whose face I don't even see.

it's alright.
z. d. imama

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