A Twisted Mind — Horror Of Neglect and Schizophrenia

By Sneha Manna

The blade sings like an old lullaby,

It's cold silver whispering a story of torture. 

gliding through the fragile skin, 

flesh yielding like paper torn by cruel hands.

The man screams, but it's useless. 

No one is there to hear him, 

Just like a voice lost in an ocean of silence. 

his blood spilling like forgotten ink

on a page too scarred to write.

The room, red with the rich scent of blood, 

smells of old wounds reopened. 

I keep staring at his eyes, 

those eyes—

hollow and

vacant like the hands that once held me,

like the familiar faces that never cared for me,

like the teachers who ignored

even when I bled inside,

like the classmates who laughed

as my soul crushed under the weight

of their cruel words.

I recall the scent of the leather belt

whipping through the air

a sound probably more familiar than love,

hitting my body,

each strike reflecting their hate

and inhumanity towards me. 

A child’s cries meant nothing in that cold house, 

Nothing else mattered in front

of my mother’s rage,

my father’s drunken fists.

I was like the dog they kicked, 

the toy they broke 

the thing they spit on, 

never to be fixed

never to be cared. 

Yes, I was born different. 

My mind, it was broken from birth, 

like a puzzle missing its final piece.

But does that really make me unworthy of love? 

They whispered words like curses, 

as if my existence was a mistake. 

Could no one silence the voices that haunted me? 

Not the world, not the strangers,

but my own parents? 

the ones who should have held me

instead of turning their backs,

and leaving me all alone in this cruel empty world. 

Now, as his blood stains my hands,

I can see their faces in his, 

in the trembling lips that begged,

in the terrified eyes that recognized

what they transformed me into. 

I am them,

they are me. 

I am the twisted reflection of their cruelty,

and they live in the void of my madness,

whispering their stories into my broken mind.

“Why does the world hurt so much?”

I whisper to the body, 

to the walls, 

to the ghosts that haunt my mind,

but they do not answer.

They never answer.

My thoughts crack and split like mirrors,

shards of memory scattered across the floor. 

I am breaking down more and more, 

to the extent I can't recognize myself anymore. 

I kill because I am dying inside,

because the twisted laughter of my tormentors

still repeats in my ear, 

and no matter how many bodies I spill,

it never stops.

I realize it myself that I am not free.

I am still in their clutches. 

still a child in a prison,

still waiting for someone to make it stop.

By Sneha Manna