DEATH Poem: Death of My Spirit, by Simran Devkota

Why shouldn’t she help herself, after the way she’d been treated? She had been beaten and battered. Wrecked and ruined.

His fists brustled against his hips. Gently was a word he’d use to describe the way she looked at him. What a fucking pity, what a mess. Her eyes looked past him and into the world behind. The world outside. He knew this.

Her knees were bent on the floor. He was bent on making her get up. Slowly, she rose. First her upper body, then her hands. She reached for him. A step was taken towards her. Not his feet though.

Tears began to fall from his eyes as he grappled with the weight of his actions. His grip on her hands shifted hers to open them up. Rather than praying, she was pleading. Ready to accept anything else he’d give her.

Shame. Shameful. Shameless. He took a hand to trace her slight smile. It was meek and appeared when he dropped himself into her hands. He was around her now, his musk overpowering her strength and she let her hands fall on his back.

How could she smile? So fucking deplorable.

She rested herself on him.

“I… I understand.. You were upset- I get it! It’s okay- don’t cry..”

Whispering with her fawn-like docile voice, she closed herself away from what could be her escape.

But she felt bad. She didn’t know in what way. Whether she was sorrowful for him or for herself.