On the pristine cloak of my imaginative mind,
tiny traces of skin and caked-up blood under my fingernails,
are the only things left to remind me of you.
The scratches on my arm are testimony to my struggle with you.
Blood stains on my clothes tell a story of their own,
a gory, messy and bloodcurdling tale of a voilent tussle.

There was no corpse at the end of this struggle,
or was there? Do dead hearts count?
Is a lacerated and broken heart considered a victim?
Is the heartbreaker ever branded a criminal?

I didn't mean to scratch you or harm you in any way,
it was an act of self preservation.
I couldn't let you go, was afraid of being left alone.
I held on tight, gripped so hard,that
instead of bringing us closer,I pushed you away forever.

Maybe you didn't know the true meaning of love,
or you didn't care to understand its implications.
Just uttered 'Love you', one fine day and were done.
I treasured your love, basked in its warm shade.
I breathed in its sweet aroma,
lived for it every waking and sleeping hour.

So when you turned and walked away, something snapped,
I couldn't bear the thought of losing your love.
I had to make you see reason and understand.
My heart refused to believe you no longer cared,
It had to make an attempt to keep you within.

The more I struggled to voice my feelings,
the more you resisted my efforts to hold on.
My fingers dug into your arm,
you pried them off, one by one, bruising me,
hurting me, scratching my arm in the process.

I don't know if the blood on my clothes is mine,
or is some of it yours?
Can't make out who hurt whom more?
Whose pain is unbearable?

Was I wrong in loving you so much?
Or were you right in shrugging off my hand.
Should I have let you go without a fight,
or held on with all my might?

Sulekha Rawat