PoetrySad Poems

Martha’s Secret

It was a wintry night. I was hiking through this solemn rainy park.

My brown boots with streaks of water lashes from the wet grass.

The crescent moon out with an eerie glow and an awkward spark.

Saw a preteen little girl hunkered alone in a tight corner.

Black tears from her mascaras streaming in rivulets down her beady little eyes.

And she held this damp-looking Valentine’s card.

The words inscribed with ink on them drooling out slowly into the night.

Leaving the card vastly blank.

I decided to make a bold move towards her.

Because I thought I was being a good Samaritan.

I wanted to know with intricate details who shattered her fragile heart.

I stuttered.

“Why cry alone in the middle of the night?”

She didn’t give an immediate answer to that.

So the question was left hanging high like a cheerleader’s bangled banner and the luminous stars.

Waiting for the right execution from a deranged mind.

I noticed she wasn’t being so nice.

I noticed she was devoid of the light.

She has been eaten by the darkness and the gory mess evident from the inside.

… it was translucent.

So… I started to walk away with anger.

Our fingers intertwined.

To an unknown course I couldn’t register.

But then I felt a trembling finger on my shoulder.

she held me back.

Her touch ignited a dead romance.

She said rather coolly, “It was Martha.”

I relaxed.
I smiled.

And she continued.
“It was Martha. Martha, broke my fragile heart.”

Even though the face staring back at me was a total stranger.

And we jist met for the first time.

I wanted to fight.

I wanted to disembody Martha.

Stab so vigorously at her liver.

… and watch her vomit bile.

And in the end?


And lose her worthless life.

But I stopped.
I stopped!

I am an innocent child!

So I told her.

“I am sorry to hear about that.”

I swallowed hard.

“Why not spend the night at my house?”

“It must be cold and I don’t want you to starve.”

She looked at me skeptical.

Her stare could’ve made me instantly blind.

The light returned.
It mimicked the infernal dragonfly.

Anger rose.
…and she stood with a knife!

Her eyes glistening like wet glass.

And I knew I stroked something I shouldn’t have.

She yelled at me.

“You’re just like Martha! You want to get under my pants.”

Her words were fierce and sharp.

I could feel the force of the stab.

I wanted to talk.

But she covered my mouth.

She was quick and amazingly fast.

Her palms reeked of copper.


And dye.

I felt a sharp prick below my abdomen.

A quick slash.

I felt my intestines.

I felt a coarse hand on my trembling shoulders.

Life draining out of me like water.

Power tripping.
Am I blacking out?

Then she did something even stranger.

She kissed me hard.

I was on my knees.

I could feel and see the world spinning.

I was having a gurgling conversation with life.

With the world twirling around me like spaceships and satellites.

And that was the last thing I felt and saw before I met the Satan. Before I meet Lucifer.

My name is MARTHA.

Few minutes ago.

Martha was staring at the face on the mirror.

An ugly reflection stared back.
Depression and alcohol.

The aftermath of her teary chiseled cheeks,
left a scaly trail of salty crystallines.

The throe won’t suffice,
then she was keenly interested in suicide.

Her life wasn’t worth more than a nickel.

Maybe a sudden paroxysm might alter that change to a dollar.

Few minutes later,
her whole world was twirling round.

A tight noose around her jugular.

The other end of the noose fastened tightly on her creaking ceiling fan.

She lost another life.

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