The Monster

The following is not a poem or a story in its strictest sense. It does not need to rhyme, nor does it need to describe the occurrence in detail.

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I cried, I pleaded, tried to free back my hand
he wrung and jerked it, ignoring my stand

He kept leering like a wolf at me, then
pounded at my flesh, with a sick rapture

I wriggled, protested and I pleaded again
to let go of me, for once, just for once

But he went on with it and threw me on bed
face down, and held me there while he said

'I am not gonna hurt, don't you distress,
you are so pretty, just like a princess'

then, He tore off my innocence, my childhood
and crushed hard my fragile soul, my self

I screamed first, fluttered and writhed with pain,
then I became numb, didn't move again

His red and green bed sheet and the dim lit wall,
is what I saw before I faded, is what I recall

I woke up, limped on my feet and fell
some time had passed, how much I couldn't tell

He sat there, watched me collect myself, and
threatened to repeat it, if I told someone else

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I used to work there as a maid
to help my family, to earn our bread

I was a girl of 11
he had a daughter my age

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I stay at home, sitting, lying, staring at the blankness of the world outside
I try to hide behind my shadow, when somebody visits our house

I wake up at nights,screaming and panting with pain
I see flashes of dark blue walls, dim lights, and a distant voice of a sobbing girl