Published February 26, 2015 by Shreya Rajvanshi

Her hands went white,
And her face went pale,
Arms went numb as she kept
Rolling on the bed,
As she kept
Pushing under the sheets,
Pulling out her teeth,
Rushing so that she could breathe.
“A few more seconds
And you’ll be free”,
Cried the man in a mask,
And she rubbed her back
Against the sheets drenched
In her sweat,
Till her forehead became wet,
She pushed, till she heard another cry,
A cry which wasn’t hers,
But still was her own.
A cry of her first child,
Who cried because he missed the
Warmth of her mother’s womb.
Drained, she held the
Her own little flesh in her
Limp hands and
Smiled for the first time
In hours.


18 comments on “Ecstacy.

  • Warmth, unloved. Caressed but not needed. Unfelt, yet heard, a cry of need of compassion. She tried a breath, but not until it was time. Then it went. A cross off the list. Another burst of agony. A euphoric sense of contemplation. First born seconds. Alive.

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