her face in the mirror
all mine not mine and
there is rust washing
to be done on old chains
in the barren playlot
she the me locking unlocking
six-paneled doors wood
of ghetto apartments
a gulag of memories jailed
rape is not right
not a right
but we, me and she
promise the no cry no more
come knocking,
come knocking
down the corridor
and i hold she as me
in our striped stained bed
crying hush to those
howling dogs of war
This poem is a visceral, fragmented cry of trauma and survival. The shifting pronouns (she/me/we) blur identity, suggesting dissociation or a fractured self grappling with pain. Rusty chains, barred doors, and “howling dogs of war” evoke imprisonment and violence, while the repeated “no cry no more” feels like a desperate mantra. The rawness of “rape is not right / not a right” cuts deep, rejecting any justification for violation. The imagery—striped stained beds, gulag-like memories—paints a haunting portrait of endurance. A harrowing but powerful piece.
Thank you, Srikanth. Your observations and comments are much appreciated 🙏
Powerful.
Thank you 🙏
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