Nupur Chaturvedi

If this were war,
I would be snaking over rough earth,
My weapon in hand, elbows propelling me forward.
And when I would spot the enemy,
My crawl would turn to crouch,
And at the right time, I would get my shot.
But I wouldn’t be unscathed, no.
My shoulders are tender,
The rebound would dislocate them,
And I would wonder, who won,
The one who died,
Or the one who lives
With lifetime of pain in front of her.

This is not a war, though.
This is just everyday life,
Mundane, routine, dull.
There is no crawling nor crouching,
Nor the coarse surface scraping my stomach.

My adversaries are within me.
My weapon pointed inwards,
I still take aim.
And realise…

No one wins
No one can win.
We are in this endless shadow dance
A deceitful play of reflections,
And unless we find the light source,
Our aims are false, our enemy an illusion.
And my dislocated shoulder, a constant reminder
That pain is the only outcome of war.