48 Hours Later
A Poem
He screams at her about the aftermath of yesterday
Her ears ringing from his anger
Thrice as much was her rage
flowing out of her mouth as foul words.
Words that were never meant to reach
the ears of the five-year-old
right across from them she sat.
Tiny fingers plunged into her ears
almost as if her years of training
had turned into muscle memory.
While sneaking candies into her mouth,
wrappers crumpled behind the bedroom door.
She learned to swallow her tears,
She learned to stop the scream forming
down her throat.
She learnt to walk to the next room
and shut the door with tiny fingers.
Her palm holds the power
to muffle her screams today
at 15.
Three more years, a place
of her own then.
Three more years…
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Sweet 16 arrived, a bit too bitter
to be called sweet.
Shattering of glass, and plates thrown
were common sights.
Shutting the door was never the option
now; the door only muffled, never
drowned those screams.
She learnt to drive away; she learnt
to drink her sorrow away,
Bringing bottles to her mouth
before glasses shattered.
Getting drunk was comfort,
comforting enough to drown
all the loudness the world had
to offer.
The days passed; alcohol lost its effects.
She returned to modified candies
the ones they were warned against
at schools.
Cocaine, Meth, Heroin
and an overspeeding car
that gave her the will to live.
Alcohol pooled down.
48 hours passed,
before they discovered alcohol
to be blood.
The buried candy wrappers
found their way to trash.
Now behind the door sits
a little girl wondering how long it
would take to drown the voice outside.
