Issue Three

Suchismita Ghoshal

All I Did With Freedom

Freedom is similar to the flowing water, a beautiful amalgamation of the hydrogen and oxygen. Nobody ever dares to prevent it flowing.

Freedom is the gentle torture, an inch more can choke your breathe and an inch less can belittle you.

Freedom is like the summer sun. The sharper it gets, the more you screech. But today the world before me seems to lose the lustre of it, and I don’t stop the shit entering into me.

Freedom of speech- a distant dream. I sucked into it every time. The first time was when I learnt  to stop my tongue running against my puritanical father,

the second time when I saw my  mother shattered into the floor and I didn’t let my words come out of a mouth, bandaged,

the third time when I let my teachers  not to know the true reason for my chronic absence,

the fourth time when I willingly let my lover abuse me for the way I dress myself,

the fifth time when I chose to run from the bullies rather than speaking up on the spot,

the sixth time when I saw my best friend alleged me against a contagious reason 

of snatching his boyfriend and all I did was to offer her a ‘freedom of speech’,

the seventh time when I let my scream stuck in the pillow for my voice tasted bitter  at the vulnerable hours of night,

the eighth time when I crumpled the paper in which I drew a woman resembling just like me with all the bittersweet flaws,

the ninth time when I almost  sucked my depression against my will to provoke my anxiety for a dangerous torment to almost death,

and the tenth time when I wrote this poem freeing my thoughts on how I let

the ‘freedom of speech’ chop my wings for the ‘freedom of living’, part by part, day by day!

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