There were scars, he would never see.
A part of her so broken, that it will cease to make any sense.
She has a story that he will never hear.
It will never be told to anybody.
Enclosed in her heart, sealed from the world and beyond.
She entitled herself to a burden so dear to her,
that she could never share it.
And it clung on to her as dearly as she clung on to it.
He will never know what she survived.
What made her heart ache,
when Othello said-
A liberal hand. The hearts of old gave hands,
But our new heraldry is hands, not hearts.
It will be eternal mystery,
so as to what her subconscious part of the Freud's iceberg holds.
He sees her as she behaved herself,
and he claims to have understood her
and takes pride in his human skills.
But What is understood?
When there are layers
as many as the days in her life that she wears.
He will not know what memories his touch and his words trigger
in her aged brain,
storming her to a place very melancholy.
But her skin wouldn't give in and her words wouldn't fail her,
and the world inside her will never be unleashed.
The days when she hides and cries to herself
will always be her secret she will keep from him.
When she cried for the reasons she denies to herself.
He will love her.
He will love the illusion he perceives.
He will love her but her plagued soul
will never be the part of the illusion he chose to see.
She will be loved.
Yet she will not be.
Copyright © Meenakshi KM | Year Posted 2016