She Got Blood Smeared On Her Hands

By Mariyam Shirolkar

She got blood smeared on her hands, but the blood is hers.

She didn’t kill anybody but her soul just died,

The painful pleasure is all she hides.

The world is red and so is she,

She thought she helped herself, but that was just a lie,

The hurt was more she could not deny,

When the water burned there she just sighed in despise, her soul was disguised. 

She got blood smeared on her hands, but the blood is hers. 

The drops of tears rolling down did not matter at that time.

All she wanted was to get out,

To escape, to feel something in her life, 

She was hazed with all their bloody lies, 

So she spilled her crimson cells to feel alive

Her heart really cried. 

Yet all her soul felt was flowing down in tears of bitterly snug red, 

The sharpness of the blade couldn’t be compared to her plight, 

She had told me “I got blood smeared on my hands, but the blood is mine”

The overwhelming bubble was the one she popped,

She cut herself so she could smile,

The cuts were just another one of her ethereal escapes of life.

This is not a call for a cry, 

She already cries, 

But she also smiles. 

She has love in her soul, full of light, 

She believes in herself all the time.

Her hope was not me, or somebody she sees, 

Her hope was herself to be free. 

She got blood smeared on her hands, but the blood is hers.

The scars so deep,

Will they ever heal?

She thankfully still breathes—herself so divine,

Today she heals,

Emptying her crimson bottle of dried-up wine, 

She got blood smeared on her hands, but the blood was hers. 

By Mariyam Shirolkar