She withered slowly in pain and angst,
Her eyes bleeding with fear and impetrate.
She asks for help, for someone to liberate her.
Those brutish hands, that attacked her womanhood.
She pleas for justice and begs for equity,
As they clutch her hands forcefully, tearing her soul bitterly.
She looks at the reporters that are somewhere vanished,
Letting those brutes devour her, leaving her in bits, her soul tarnished.
She implores the youth for help, not the candle marches but a change that would prevail,
The people run campaigns on social media wherein reality, she is devoured again.
Somehow with God's grace she survives the nasty assult,
Little did she know it would begin again as she starts to grow.
She looked at the people for comfort and empathy,
Not the society questioning her parents, her purity.
Their barbs and bashes doubting her character, pointing fingers at her personality.
"Oh she deserves it." Said one.
"Look at her short dress." Commented the other.
Little by little these comments turn into brittle remarks,
Never letting her sleep, ruining her hereafter.
She looks at the moon, the stars in the sky.
As the breezes flow past her heart,broken and dry.
She looks at the world and questions again,"Why is it me, who has to suffer? Why is it me who is always questioned."

Why is it a women and not a boy,
Why is it about restricting a girl and not educating a boy?

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According to a report by child rights NGO CRY, the sexual offence is committed against a child in India every 15 minutes and there has been an increase of more than 500 per cent over the past 10 years in crime against minors.