Home Is A Torture Cell For Me Poem by Md. Ziaul Haque

I feel like being a prisoner,
Inside my own house here,
He doesn't give me a handful of freedom,
All he gifts me with is boredom and boredom.

If I call anyone over the phone,
He appears like a monster making me mourn,
For my effort to contact with others,
Even the windows are like the jail's bars.

I can't cook properly, he says,
I can't behave, he says,
I'm not allowed to go for a walk outside,
Since the virus called ‘doubt' is eating his mind.

He has made me bleed repeatedly,
Since I tried to escape desperately,
Grabbed me like an animal,
Throwing me back into his torture cell!

Oh God! What can I do?
I beg of You,
Please save me from this medieval Satan,
Open up a way for me to fly, to run.


- Written from the perspective of a tortured woman.