It’s 2am and the milky white stars are out,
Pulsing to the beat of a mother’s breaking heart.
She has been emptied but remains full
Of guilt towards that graveyard resting inside of her.
She waters the flowers that spring from it, feels them grow,
And inscribes the headstone: Aasha... or, or Anjali.
Another theft, another lost girl, another will-never-be-girl,
Centuries worth of girls, enough to drown the Ganges,
Because of that snoring weight pressed close to her side,
Smelling of sweat and smoke and lies.
Wondering how she even made it out alive,
She lays there, and knows when morning breaks,
And the crows begin to scream,
That she will have to look them in the eye.
Hundreds of them hidden,
Killers on every street.
By Zarah Alam