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I was a wet clay pot. Still raw and soft. My potters were shaping me carefully. Dreaming of something beautiful and shiny. I was yet to grow. And yet to glow.

Niva Manandhar


I was a wet clay pot.
Still raw and soft.
My potters were shaping me carefully.
Dreaming of something beautiful and shiny.
I was yet to grow
And yet to glow.

But that evening he said he was the potter.
“I will carve you pretty my baby girl. 
It might hurt but stay quiet okay?” He said.
He forced me down on his lap.
His fingers touching and covering all the gap.
It hurt bad.
It really did.

He let me go promising the designs.
But turned out to be scars.
A lifetime deep scar.

I thought I would have chocolates to fill in.
But left with bitter memories instead.
“Don’t say to anyone,okay? These 
This is a shall fade.” He said.
Little did I knew, 
Designs fade, scars don’t.
That voice rings my ear still so fresh.

That day I learned to lie.
A little reason to die.
I then just lived like a beautiful cup.
A shiny scarred broken cup.


 

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