Shweta Suman, "The Platelets of Value"

I have his blood,
But the platelets of value
I have of you, Maa.

Every day you curse him,
You curse the day your hair parting was filled red,
You curse the night the bed sheet turned red,
You hate the first sight of that blood smeared tiny piece of your womb.
You hate the existence of my soul, maa.

You weren’t this a few years before,
You weren’t the present ‘You’ a few days before.
You clasped me into your embrace every night,
You hugged my fears really tight,
Lest I fall off from the dreamland ride.

They say, you both were ‘goals’
Then why do you say he loves a whore?
You weren’t enough for his southern desires,
He acquired the fire from someone else’s charcoal,
And burnt the entire mansion of that soul.
‘Molestor’ is now, how he’s known.

Drops of bloody guilt and shame had rolled down your eyes,
You came to me in a state of a vulnerable feminine.
I was the age of five, maa
When you had spat on my eyes,
“Blood of a sinner,
Will become my doom,”
You had said and left,
Forever, from my sight
And my life.

Now, at eighteen
I know, what those eight words of hate
You had bestowed on me
As your last gift,
Mean.

I don’t regret originating from you, maa
I don’t hate him either for destroying us.
But,
I do curse my fate, maa
For, I couldn’t let you know,
“I have his blood,
But the platelets of value
I have of you, maa.”