Illustration by Arushi Gupta
“Skin deep, we carve our immeasurable sorrow in the fold of your shivering arms…”
When the mirror’s cracked pane slits a hole
In your visage, and twists with untruth
Your contorted taut innards—when hate
Carves your core to a festering pulp,
And you deem yourself culpable—what
Can you do, but encircle that void
With your own empty arms, and recall
The dissembler who’d preyed on your trust?
He’d alleged you’d be safe if you pledged
Secret love, so you’d choked down his lust.
Yet, in yielding, you’d swallowed yourself.
Now a silver-tongued knife on your desk
Glibly glints, and his blade courts your lack:
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