Incurable

By Simran Thind

Mr Pervert calls it a casual flirt

To acquaint with what’s beneath her skirt

The society perhaps is made of clay

Who endlessly sermons on her clothes and ways

The hands that touch with a lack of warmth

The groins that move back and forth

Her little dreams are crushed in bed

A perennial wish that she’d better be dead

The mandom calls it some ‘surreal need’

For a little child who’s made to weep and bleed

And there’s never an acceptance of the crime that was...

Except to find some social flaws

In her mind when that moment reverberates

An incurable stir it still creates

The wounds of the girl will never be healed

For the minds are latched and lips are sealed.

By Simran Thind