The False Reaper





“Can I buy you a drink,” was how it started,

Tipsy she felt, yet she accepted;

For before her was standing a man so fair,

A living replica of Greek god he was, she swore;

Blond hair, sharp jaw and chiseled looks were all it took to stir her core berserk.

Giddy she felt, butterflies erupted in her stomach like volcanoes.

Gazing at her glossy eyes, he believed he hit the target right;

A smirk so sinister appeared on his face,

Yet like a love struck teenager she thought it made him look all the more great.

Conversations glided, same did the drinks, Sanity was forgotten and now fun was all she wanted.

Unable to take it anymore, they both lost control;

Slamming their lips against each other’s, they jostled their way to a cramped room upstairs,

Clothes they were wearing were soon discarded,

Moving their bodies against each other, they made the best of what each could offer.

Once their needs were satisfied, they fell asleep in each other’s arms,

Before drifting off to slumber, the chances she stood to get a guy like him was what she wondered.

Morning came and he was gone,

Saddened was she that he was a usual jerk.

 

Days flew by and she felt uneasy,

In her stomach, instead of butterflies she found me.

Scared to death, she could not think straight;

Realisation dawned that she knew nothing apart from his first name.




She ignored me and slipped into depression,

She blamed me for creating a havoc in her sweet abode.

How dare she! It wasn’t me.

I was just the product of her pleasure,

Inside her womb, pleasure through love and care was the only thing I desired.

Day in and day out, she cursed me like no tomorrow;

Finally having had enough, she took a heinous resolution.

Despite my protests, she rushed off to a clinic so cheap,

That for a split second, I worried about her other than me.

Black dots began to cloud my vision and soon I slipped into oblivion.

A monster she is, she killed me before I could feel the air kissing my cheeks;

She vacuumed me out of her system like she vacuums specks of dirt underneath her table.

I am mad at her for creating me and then abruptly and ruthlessly squashing my dreams to live.

 

Written by Paromita Falia

Edited by Afreen Zeb

 


 

Image Source – flikr.com


 

 


Share With Friends