'''IT WASN'T fine when you were in your own bed in your own room for two whole months three years ago, and two months is sixty days and sixty nights and one thousand four hundred and forty hours and eighty-six thousand and four hundred minutes and out of all this time, you don't even remember how long it hurt and how hard he touched you, but you know he did... and you know you only fought back the first night and the second and the third but two months is a long time its sixty days and sixty nights and one thousand four hundred and forty hours and eighty-six thousand and four hundred minutes and if you only fought back three times well the other fifty-seven, he probably thought you were into it...two months is so long, it's long, it's hard and it hurts, everything hurts, and you know you can still trace his scratches on your thighs and sometimes you do but it's the worst thing you could do to yourself...you come back from two months and one thousand four hundred and forty hours and eighty-six thousand and four hundred minutes...you take a deep breath and you breathe and you live'''
Isha Das
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem