What you could have done to me was to drag my lifeless body across the tracks. What you could have done to me was to not know my name, my own personal names. What you could have done to me, was to let him bury me alive. See the fear in my eyes vanish from beyond. The white of my eyes, the blacks of my pupils dissipate too, slowly trickling away to the back of my eyes. What you could have done to me was to taste each of my fingers, with its soft delicate sweetness, my blood red fingertips as sweet as summer strawberries. What you could have done for me, was to look at the sky at the bright luminous clouds taking its shape as it travel around the world. You reach for the sky with your hand, stretching and longing to touch its joyful softness. What you could have done to me was to read to me every night, each curled page after another, a man and a woman longing for each other. What you could have done for yourself, was to not slice my throat, and to have the crimson blood drip from your hands.
What I could have said for you, was to not kill me.
And what I could have said for me, was to be happy for your worthy solemnly praises.
<(c) Zona. Heera>