The caress of the morning sun
Seemed to her a selfish touch,
Gentle, then vicious,
Soft until it felt too warm,
Too close,
As if penetrating her skin.
She flinched.
Panic flooded her senses,
Her eyes bulging in disbelief,
Her toes twitched,
Her hands floundering in the air,
Until she snapped back,
With rasping lungs,
The dryness in her throat,
A loaded headache,
And the smear,
Wiping the dirt of her stained face.
Then it was all the same.
Nothing moved, no one came,
The wooden door bolted,
The solid gray walls unscathed,
The off-white curtains still,
As if too scared to be pushed by the wind,
Petrified about that one moment of weakness,
One foreign intrusion,
Into the dead cell she lay in,
Since the last 17 hours.
A tear slipped from her hollow eyes,
Fresh with the pain of last night,
Stopping at the hollow of her cheekbones,
As if unable to bear the weight of agony,
As if terrified to evaporate,
In the heavy humid gloom of the room.
Her heart was still alive,
Hysterical with the idea of being mourned,
By the grays, whites and browns surrounding it.
It was fighting every second of,
Turbulent nausea,
Horror-stricken nightmares,
Excruciating pain,
And harrowing cries,
In spite of knowing that it is not long,
Before it would succumb to oblivion,
Thirsty for the hands of the divine to catch the flailing arms,
But would the Gods appear to hold this vandalized body?
And then the carcass would lay so bare,
So quiet, so naked,
Like it lay in the middle of the street last night,
After being violated!

.    .    .