If I dared step out the line, that you drew for me so long ago,
Would you still be mine?
Can I still be called alive, if your every wish is my command
When I don’t know how to lie?

When we both picked the same road, Tum sa na tha koi humsafar
We had the same taste and were meant for each other
Life is nothing but choices; your hands were there for me to hold on to
You would give me the stars if it pleased you.

Driving home, late that night, you cried so hard, broke my heart
The violets bloomed on my … skin

Then the next time it was my fault, Just look at what I made you do
The nurses’ faces are so familiar.

I am bound by the chains you locked me in, all these years
Where do they end, my skin begin?
My mirrors are all shattered, I cannot face myself no more
Am I still alive?

If I dared step out the line, that you’ve drawn for me, all this time
Will I be mine?

---

Staying locked in, I have had time to reflect on various topics. The constant, endless stream of content could lead to mindless binges. But my brain often takes a pause to reflect. I happened to come across a scene of domestic abuse in one such online content one day, which broke my heart and played around in my mind till I had to sit down and write Violets.

We can experience abuse, emotional dependence at various degrees, from/with various kinds of people in our life. It could take various forms and terms as well – gas-lighting, constant undermining, bullying, verbal as well as physical abuse. Sometimes, it’s even difficult to identify if this even happened to us.

Some of us could be lucky enough to cut off such people from our lives – but is that always possible? Especially if the relationship is permanent. Especially if such negative behavior is perhaps very rare or occasional and they actually are quite caring the other times? They could even be generous people, when they are in the mood.

In my poem, all was well. Until one day, when the violets bloomed. In this case the bruises manifested physically, in various flavors of black, blue and purple. Like a bouquet of violets, tattooed on the skin. But it necessarily need not be true for others; the bruises in the minds and hearts of the victim matter equally.

And the first time that it happens, one would probably forgive the repenting perpetrator. Till it happens again, and again. Till not even you can fool yourself. Like every other abuser when they scream Look what you made me do!, you try to think you can prevent this from happening if you just don’t cross the line. And you are so emotionally dependent on them, the thought of letting them go is as, or probably more, painful than the abuse.

When I first jotted down Violets, the ending line had been a alternative Will you still be mine? But while playing the song to myself I fumbled and sang Will I… be mine? And it felt right.

Till that very last line, the victim in the poem is trapped. Acknowledging all that’s happened and is happening, but there’s no will to drag free, no hope to set oneself free. Till that very last line, where they timidly wonder, if they could finally be their own self. If it was possible to find freedom.

While this post tells my point of view while writing this poem which I eventually turned into a song, I welcome any alternate message that could be perceived. And if you could relate to the lines, please. Talk to me, talk to someone. Anyone. That is a start.

---

I’m not a great singer or guitarist, I tried to narrate the poem above through a song. Please check it out 🙂

These are trying times. Please stay safe.

Cheers,
Geekista… a Girl with a Guitar 🙂