Desperate


by Ayushi Rawat

Desperate.
The recollection of
An image,
of the commonest
Yellow butterfly,
Trapped
Fluttering its wings, desperately;
In an attempt to free itself
From the bunch of thorns.

I stood there, looking,
Four years old; bewildered.
Internalizing the horror.

I stand here today,
Desperate.

I had a box,
A normal dark, six sided box;
In my mind.
And an image of me
Cringing inside,
I felt safe.

I am 10,
I sit on my bed,
Leaning against the wall
As I try to make three pillows stand
Leaning on me
from all three sides,
And a fourth one covering my head.
I felt sheltered in the darkness.

I stand here on the eighth floor balcony,
The Mumbai sea before me;
I look at the waves,
So free,
Blue, white froth.
A throbbing wave of memories,
Most of them in my imagination.
Desperate.

I feel the wave
Reach my feet
And the sand under my feet
Slipping
Suddenly, looking at its
Vastness,
I think of Virginia Woolf,
And what would it be like
To walk into the sea.
Desperate.

We were reading Plath
A classmate sensing my fascination
For her work,
mockingly told me,
“One day, you will become like her
If you read too much into her.”
I rubbished it at first.
Then mustered up the courage to think
in that direction.
And then I saw it
My hamartia, my fatal flaw:
Desperate.

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