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Tainted : Heather

Keira is just a teenager, a lover and devoted friend of literature.

I'm worried I haven't posted enough lovey-dovey stuff on here. I don't know, for me, I can only write stuff I have inadvertently faced myself, in real life. About love, I used to be head over heels for someone, and well see, I cannot even think of how to complete this sentence.

Something about it always seems less, incomplete, but concluding, it was never meant to be. Not from my side, not from his. (He is a really cool person though we're perfect friends.)

Without much forethought, here's the third poem in the series, and no doubt, I think this is one of my more beautiful works, if not the best, that is. (I cannot wait for the synopsis, I'd love to word all of it in one article, if I could)


There's hush, there's poise
With every slither of white,
There's olden turquoise

There's a sheen, somewhere close
Hustles behind morning leaves,
She drops a yearning prose

"One hundred shackles
Pull at my skin
They bind me to freedom,
Bind me to my sin
I wonder how there's quiet
Wonder how there's mist
Fire blazed through my insides
But left behind no silt?

Isn't it odd,
How humans thrive
With something so defeasible
Caught between fists,
Of perennial pride?

I've sat by the river,
And heard your voice
Swam to the oysters
With reverberating choice

I've sat by the quiet
But the storm must never end
With every ounce of love,

Beloved son,
and dearest friend"

I slowly pull my hood closer
And advance along the trodden steps
There's blisters on the back of my neck,
And sleet along the nape of my dress


I’ve tried to create this very visual image of a girl, in a graveyard. She is walking among the stones, reminiscing this exact same day, a year before.

She looks at her lover’s gravestone, and then at the epigraph she wrote for him. However terrifying losing him was, she can still not bring her mind to accept the fact that she chose to let him go. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she is the one who killed him. (For this exact purpose I never mention how he died in the poem, have fun.)

She tries to explain sympathy with torture, and torture with sympathy. Yet there’s nothing that can calm her down. Not him, not his peace, and now that he’s gone, it’s amplified yet subdued.

Soon evening falls, and she leaves the place as quietly as she had arrived, pulling closer and covering her face with her hood, trying to hide her tears, or perhaps the fact that there were none. She walks down the same path with the same emotions, the same guilt, the same play, yet it is, and will always be a completely different day.

© 2021 Keira Anand

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