My therapist tells me to practice spelling out S-T-O-P  I-T everyday, the words that I should have yelled that day

(Assume All Trigger Warnings)

Summer afternoons have
always been too salty, 
A kind that squeezes
up your throat in a way,
that it even forgets to 
heave the last sigh of existence. 
It takes me back to that
day when I first tried
to run away, 
The day when I first heard
the sound of my heart dropping,
A sound below 20hz, A sound 
incomprehensible by normal 
human beings- 
A sound overwhelmed by the
screams discoloring the
the four walls that just stopped
being-home.

I remember 
The pink scarf, the rusty
road with scratches that
went too deep.
Pink is my mother’s favorite
color, there was a time when 
it used to match her cheeks.
Ironically, it is also the 
color of the rose I plucked
for some secret teenage affair,
I choked it through my own
fingers, my palm is yet not
red from its blood, it just lies
with no breath. 

I am a murderer, I have killed
A chubby child with a noisy laugh,
A headstrong teenager with 
a tongue sharper than the 
comments on a girl’s skirt
whose period started in the
middle of her maths class.
I have pulled away even 
before reaching the edge,
wondering, what if the end
tempts me more than the
beginning ever did.
I have shushed resistance 
with adjustments,
Fisted palms scripted with
words that never left my
fingers and, called it all 
a part of my self-defense.
Maybe, if I had used my hands to 
defend than to close my mouth,
She wouldn’t have those blue-black
ridges highlighting her arms,
that have carried the load of 
five adults with zero help.

Now, I write poems to
apologize to all the 
women I ever did wrong, 
My poems scream words
that I never dared to
enunciate,
My therapist tells me to
practice spelling out
S-T-O-P  I-T every day,
The words that I should 
have yelled that day. 

Isha Adhikari
Isha Adhikari