I'm holding my pen, not letting it spill
Typing words, then erasing them; I admit
Today, a vague feeling creeps through my fingers
I hold myself; bridling, for their
Malicious minds would twist my words
What if I'm murdered tomorrow?
Along with my body being cut and sewed;
They'd meddle with it to
Find traces of my murder's hands on me.
My things would be intruded, too.
Agitated, I still write
They may look into my diary; the one
I let no one touch, and rip the pages where
They find ill written about my sister, and,
Claim sibling rivalry, or
Pry into my social media to notice my captions-
Being weary of the world, and,
Hang me to the noose of depression
I will write
Don't tamper my words, or misconstrue
My metaphors, and put
My loved ones in pain.
My dubious fingers manage to scribble
It's okay; let the bloodied hands be hidden
Just, don't put the innocent to shame.
Don't. I love them.
****
~Nida
