HOUSE_HELPS by Mimiap Arnold Shan

Girl childarnoldshan087@gmail.comreality check: A girl she is, seemingly tender,
An iron bucket,
Gummed to her head,
One bigger, than she is,
Water, filled to the brim,
A look, into her eyes,
Voices, worker holism…She fought, against the odds,
Trying, to find her footing,
Her hands metamorphosed,
into masculinity,
Hardship, have masked her age,
Only young, at heart…A girl, someone’s child,
Either, sold out by parents,
Or deceived, by one trusted,
To care for her,
Whichever,

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Her fate has already been decided…She sleeps, one eye open,
Rises, still with the moon,
Her comfort lost to cruelty,
She is identified, so easily,
An aged wrapper, she wore,
Folded skilfully, to her waist,
Life to her is work after work…At age twelve, what hope is left,
She carefully, clean the dishes,
Make meals, for her mistress,
Nothing cooked is hers to taste,
In all these, the smile she must…Late hours, a tin voice cries,
Sound of beating, and scolding,
Heard, in the dark wind,
A house help,
Turned the punching bag…By day, her spirit already fainted,
Passers-by, pretend not to see,
Her eyes red, begging for sleep,
Each step, she staggers,
As her oversized shirt, dances…By the road, her mates in uniforms,
They’ve good energy,
Clothed, with healthy smiles,
She drowns in thoughts,
One of, gloomy forever,
Sadly, she retires to herself,
Her malnourished face,
Refocused, on the work at hand,
She is, her only solace…A girl, blood and flesh,
Dead before living,
In the hands, of acclaimed humans,
Who dress religiously, to Church,
In their homes,
Lies children’s skeletons,
But who cares,
Her life, already strangled…

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