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6 or 9, 69! (Victim Blaming)

Somewhere in a silent lane,

Crawling through the trash -

The dirt of inhuman and feelings wasted,

Tired of physical bruises

Stolen from the self

Broken pieces and trust

"Help!", she screams,

Rather Sighs!

Yet the battlefield remains unchanged;

Tomorrow is going to be the day of a namesake.

All left is still the same "NO"

To those thousand other vultures hungry

Claiming age-old culture and

Keep defining

The drunk Humanity

World of true Saints

Amidst the ring of fire

Fuelling by the varied "what if" and Only "don'ts"

While the evil flies freely through the blue sky,

& Only she is chained in endless questions;

Oh! the historic irony -

Stabbed by the unknown

Yet left Bleeding

From her Owns!

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