Bed of thorns, was so comfortable
For her, as long as the thorns
Kept themselves into her flesh
And prevented her blood from
Coming out in the open market
Of the creatures who call themselves
Humans....

But, slowly and silently the tips
Of the thorns are coming out
Piercing through her chest,
With the flood of blood....

And, the creatures are coming
To take each drop of it,
Because, her blood is
Their ink to write novels,
Their colour to paint masterpieces,
Their symphony to compose songs...
Because, her blood is
Everything for them,
Everything but Her Blood....

.

- Ipsita Mitra Pupu
16/03/2021