My Pink, Handcrafted Cupboard

In light of assaults on women in recent times, these few lines are an attempt to relate to the thoughts of a rape-survivor, who is trying to regain balance between the trauma and her life prior to the incident.

It rings loud

and hollow

in its shiny newness

my pink, hand-crafted cupboard,

as I begin

to put in

one after the other

vibrant drapes

to adorn my work and play.

Layer upon layer

the shelves and walls

absorb within

the clamour of loud, soulful hues.

It was then yesterday,

that I wore on me

an apprehensive thought

in rueful blue

and paisley yellow

as I ravaged through

the pile of clothes

from a brand new cupboard

and straight on to bed.

The void inside

started to grow

as the heap on the bed

bled to the floor.

The voice of contempt

rang loud and hollow,

like a void

hitting a void;

guttural sounds

running straight into

a larger empty space

on the shelves now

and the walls

empty with

an emptier nook within,

and hooks and hangers

to put

frightful memories on.

Was that yesterday?

Some time today…

…My hospital bed

and the white-washed sheet

is safe because

an unassuming apprehension

has been replaced

by a listless, sanitised calm.

But the soft caressing

of cotton sheets

can’t stop

my skin from pricking

at the recall of rough hands

like nettle on unsuspecting skin

over my mouth

breasts and thighs

engulfing the memory

of my father’s gentle fingers

and brother’s benign wrist.

The hollows

in my eyes

stare at the moment

that led me to that space,

in which,

robes undone

mindlessly lying

where they didn’t belong

unclaimed, unwanted

yet devoured and relished.

I’ll take them

To a tailor,

perhaps

or a seamstress, that’s better

to darn the gaping holes

or possibly

restitch together

a patterned, patch-work quilt

Would that help?

The nurse is not

a seamstress

She says she doesn’t know.

I wonder as I,

on this hospital bed,

relive

in every empty moment

thrusts

of ruthless, mocking laughter

my body, that cupboard

now a gargoyle

for refusing

newer waste

Then and now.

Be brave

I’m told

stay strong

the only way to be

Alive.

I am, always was

and yet, now

I do not know

how to live

despite the acerbic breathing

in a prickly world

of sympathetic stares

and inquisitive cares

that dress me

like mouldy, nettled fabric…

…I find all around…

barter after barter

trade after trade

bravery for safety

courage for peace

comfort for silence

blue for grey

red for white

And yellow for an abysmal nude.

It’s tomorrow now…

I’m home

and normalcy rules

in the corridor, lane, road

outside my house.

And in the loud

ringing hollows

of my cupboard,

I shall fold the colours

to tuck them away

in the deepest nook;

I am now learning

to refill the emptiness

and order the chaos

In my pink, hand-crafted cupboard.

*****