RISHITA PAMECHA - POEMS

Rishita Pamecha is a 13 year old budding poet who lives in New Delhi, India. She has loved poetry ever since she learned to love and wishes to unravel the depths of the human mind and heart. She has been featured on a number of writing platforms like The Prose, All Poetry, Hello Poetry, Medium, Your Quote and Mirakee. She plays table tennis and is an avid learner of the piano. She is a fearless debater and likes to indulge in art and craft, especially mandala making. She is best defined by her poetry.

 Now I Don’t Remember Me
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I looked in the mirror, and I didn’t find me,
But who’s that person that I see?
She looks as if she’s waiting for night,
Or simply wants to get away from the light,
Perhaps she wants to escape the staring eyes,
Because now she can’t hide the lies.
It’s been a while since she has smiled,
Because all these nights, she’s been all wild.
But now she knows her heart can no longer bear,
And her orbs have started to tear,
She feels the pain rushing out,
And her throat begging to shout,
But her voice, she just can’t find,
And the pain starts to rewind.
She has fallen onto her knees,
“End it,” she pleads,
But she knows the pain is infinite,
And each night would bring the same dreadful sight,
When she would come back home, with a thousand things to say,
But everyone would have already walked away.
Each night brought the same story,
Her pillow soaked with sorrow and agony.
She pulled at her hair,
Asking why she was there,
But she knew she’d get no answer,
The pain would always stay with her.
Yet she wasn’t alone,
Loneliness was always with her,
No one was there when she needed a shoulder,
And this is what loneliness made her.
But why do I see that girl in the mirror?
And why does she seem familiar?
I don’t know her, or do I?
And why is she there? Why?
And where am I, am I there,
In that girl who was pulling her hair?
Is that me?
Filled with agony?
The girl who hides her cries,
Behind her make-upped eyes.
Now see where I lie,
Broken, torn, and dying with every cry.
I miss those days when I was free,
Because now I don’t remember me.

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​Not Only Her Story

The society says being a women is a curse, and giving birth to one a crime,
Don’t know about the latter, but I think the first is right every time.
I ask this question since life began,
Oh god why wasn’t I a man?
Why? Why did you make me a she? 
Now see my condition, just see!
My life is made hell, even before it begins,
I am killed even before I get to ask, what were my sins
And even if by mistake, I’m allowed to be born
I know after all my life, they’re going to leave me torn.
I still remember that day, when a girl had died and a women was born
When maturity won, and innocence was worn.
This society of male regnant,
Why all this blood, why should I be punished for not being pregnant?
Why should I change my name, my identity after marriage?
And what about him? He remains who he is, and I become disparage.
Oh, she doesn’t wear skirts, she’s so desi!
And if she does she’s a slut, height of hypocrisy!


Where were you last night? 
When she was held down tight
And when her throat was tired of screaming,
Where were you, dreaming?
You must not even have realized
When you were sleeping peacefully, a hundred girls had cried.
And when your body was fully draped,
She had been raped.
And you, what did you do, what was your use?
You made it breaking news!
Candle March, that’s what you hold,
When her respect and dignity is sold!
What did you do when she lost her identity?
Told her that it’s her fault, her responsibility.
Her responsibility to ensure no one stares
She must beware, and check what she wears!
And if someone does, it’s all her fault
Her fault if she faces sexual assault,
It’s going to be her mistake
Short clothes, out late night! For goodness sake!
And it’s very soon that we would see a sight
When for rape, they’ll blame the abandoned road and the dark night.

But now, now not anymore!
They’ll have to stop calling her a whore,
Or a slut or divine,
She’s not yours, neither mine.
She’s not a toy or object,
That if not virgin you’d reject.
You get her married when she’s just eight!
You don’t even let her educate!
She wasn’t made to be ashamed or to be raped,
Or to be commented upon how her body is shaped.
She wasn’t born, 
To be used for pleasure and porn,
Or to put restrictions upon.
She isn’t there,
To break and tear.
She wasn’t sent,
To be silent.
And now she would speak,
To prove that she isn’t weak!
Stop it you jerk,
Haven’t you got some other work?
Just get it straight into your head,
You can’t have her in bed.
She’s going to come right this way,
Mark me for what I say.
And if you stare,
Just be aware,
If anything for lunch,
You’re going to get a punch,
Right on the nose,
From who you called a delicate rose.
Remember this, she is not afraid, 
Neither of you, nor of your clade.
She’s going to be out late night,
And crossing every height,
And she doesn’t need your protection,
Or any extra attention.
She can keep herself secure,
She has seen the blood, she has seen the war.
Either a slut, or goddess,    
Can’t you treat her like a human, not anymore not any less?
So, whenever you see a woman just remember,
Half of the population is female and the other half is born through her.

Now you might wonder, who is she?
So, she’s just another girl, in search of an identity.

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Yeah, It Doesn’t Hurt Anymore
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My eyes are wet, but my cheeks are dry,
My heart is hurt but it doesn’t cry.

I don’t feel okay, but I look fine,
My mind shuts at one, but my eyes close at nine.

My lips don’t part, but my throat is screaming,
I want to die, but my heart doesn’t stop beating.

My heart is broke, but still it beats,
The pain is gone, but the pain repeats.

I felt so much, that I feel empty,
I may be breathing, but the pain kills me.

I forgot the truth, for all my repeated lies,
Can’t say if I’m sleeping, or dreaming with open eyes.

But even if eyes are open, they can’t see,
Don’t know what’s real and what is fantasy!

What left me broke yesterday, seems like it never came,
Seems like the pain which used to roll down my cheeks, never touched my frame.

That pain, which used to make me sore
Yeah, it doesn’t hurt anymore.

It’s gone, but it’s there,
I’m used to the pain, so now I don’t care.

But even if I don’t care, it kills me from inside,
I may not have spoken the truth, but my eyes had never lied.


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