BLOOD OF MY BLOOD, Poetry by Anubhuti Gupta

Genre: Drama, Betrayal, Hurt

BLOOD OF MY BLOOD by Anubhuti Gupta

Once, when Ellaine was a child;
Her mother had told her many a times
It wasn’t the food or water that made a person
But care and warmth and passion and love
And all that which brought a smile during the dark times.

And so as she grew up,
Ellaine thought about it for more than a little while
She thought and thought around the clock
And in the end came to a belief that she held firm like a rock.

She accepted it was love and care that made her alive
Forming a part of her, growing ceaselessly within
With her very blood and veins.

To be fair, Ellaine had a tough life
Often too much for her soft soul to bear
But on one of those gloomy monsoon days
With her old belief she had an epiphany, she says.

You see,
It was betrayal of love that hurt the most
So all she needed to do was let go,
But how could she let go of something that was never hers?
It was then she remembered, What was it she needed to cut off
Of-course, it was forming a part of her, growing ceaselessly within
It was her very blood and veins.
First to be cut was
Fiery passionate string of lovers
Each of whom seeked only pleasures of flesh
And these were the ones that fled far away. should they ever mistakenly touch Ellaine’s spirit.
This wound bled but only little, for much can such love grow?
But blood’s blood and so it cuts however little part of her soul.

Second to be cut was
The friends, family of her own choosing
The one who always promised to watch Ellaine’s back
And also the ones who stabbed the very place they swore to watch.
This cut bled still more, emptying her soul
Of honesty and trust and of the promise of love ofcourse.

Next to be cut was
Her own flesh and bones and her own blood
The wound with the care of her mother, which she now knew was hollow
And the wound with the safety of her father, which was a cover for control.
When this wound bled, its pain was almost too real
Too real for something that was so realistically a hoax.

Last to be cut was
The blood of her blood
It was the one she didn’t even know was there
Because poor Ellaine didn’t even expect her to love herself.
Yet this was the wound that bled and drained her most
It was the only thing in Ellaine’s plan that went off-course.

Well did Ellaine die, you must wonder:
Why, ofcourse she did; don’t you remember?
Without care and warmth and passion and love
There is no person.
Such depth was in the wisdom of Ellaine’s mother.

 

    * * * * *

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