Sunday, February 18, 2018

Rimli Bhattacharya writes


There I stood
they said “look at that un draped woman”
they ran to me
I looked around
“Feeble female” they mocked

I didn’t move
I had a poster on my head -
“Rape me, please, rape me of my modesty”
I heard again “look at that un draped woman”

I heard those treads
blood oozed from my broken wounds
that poster on my head “Rape me, please, rape me of my modesty”
those mysterious amour

I dropped my costumes which I wore for my dance recitals
I cut my fingers, nails with dirt trapped behind them
I didn’t bother to move
I stood like a monster with that poster on my head “Rape me, please, rape me of my modesty”

those bizarre amour
kept crawling towards me
I ripped my skin with my nails
peeling the tiny strips of my skin by my fangs full of venom

they laughed –
I knew they loved my flesh which is now green from pang
I took out those nail clippers
that poster on my head “Rape me, please, rape me of my modesty”

I remembered him, the one whom I loved ages back –

He raped me once, he raped me twice, and he raped me forever and ever –

they came with dreams of that broken home where I was raped
I told them, I have a poster “Rape me, please, rape me of my modesty”
they agreed
they all raped me, one after one

I watched them from the plafond of nightmare, 
the semen and sweat assorted with the blood running between my legs
I checked my nails full of dirt with shredded flesh of my hymen

this time I didn’t see them,
that poster “Rape me, please, rape me of my modesty”; I hid it under my lips
when I took that glass of water with those pills

I smiled for the last time; I smiled at him whom I thought loved me
he didn’t smile back
he didn’t –

I wrote to him for the last time with smashed words broken
do not stand at my grave and weep; I did not die, I did not sleep
warble my saddest tunes today
for the blues I feel are the hardest to play

I wiped my tears alone, I didn't choose to die
I wished to live; I wished to survive
People love the dead
I'm dead, I'm made of life
<em><strong>Crouching Woman with Green Kerchief, 1914</strong></em><br /><br />Forty-three years before the first issue of <em>Playboy</em> hit newsstands, a 20-year-old art school dropout (and protégé of Art Nouveau painter Gustav Klimt) released some of the most shocking nudes of the century. <a href="" target="_blank"><em>Egon Schiele: The Radical Nude</a></em>, an exhibition at London's Courtauld Gallery, looks at the Austrian Expressionist's technically exquisite and sexually explicit depictions of the human form.<br /><br />By <strong><a href="" target="_blank">Allyssia Alleyne</strong></a>, for CNN
Crouching Woman with green Kerchief -- Egon Schiele

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