She shared her pillow with a thousand men,
she shared with less than a thousand worlds.
She kept apart her life story for someone else,
but she never forgot the aftertaste of burns.
Why did the sunsets look like the end of a battle,
but dusks were plainly viewed as the beginning,
not to be settled for at least a few more hours.
Why the trains and truths never run in same lines.
Why did the mascot boys always seem so nice,
but when you got too close, they revealed their
truthful self, so ruthless and never benign.
Why did women tear each other up at the alter,
who made them fight against themselves
without a shred of evidence, forget doubt.
Why did people preach and preach of all
the things humans could be and most certainly do,
but never themselves indulge in a moment of truth.
Why did people give more importance
things like war, when poverty and pestilence
would linger for the foreseeable future.
And on and on she would wonder,
at all things that could've been,
when everyone else assumed she was
just a brainless hap full of drama.
She would sip her coffee black,
and always sit cross legged with black dress,
and women would throw stones at her,
when men approached her with lighters.
There really wasn't much to wonder,
since her mother told it all before.
What she needed now was time for waste,
so she would think, never read,
mind you, since reading, gah,
a woman should never do.
And although she never agreed,
she still never read, at least, not
for what everyone else thinks but works
of women who worked their way for truth.
Because truth, she realised, helps,
when most people only spend their time,
assuming away at her unworn guilt.
