She is the one

She is the criticised one,

The one which is soft and kind.

Yet, don't give a damn about herself

And the "goodwill" runs in her mind.

Mocked at the face,

She got creases on her waist

She saw the demons of others

And exchanged them with her saints.

Confined within her, is a hell that she owns.

With the devils taken from all, 

her innocent soul mourns.

In the process of givin' to everyone but herself,

She poured her blood out and 

What's left now is just an ounce of it;

But all she do is to give and give until now,

Her deeds were always for others 

& for her own- nothing counts.

Her heart now is hollow‌,

No pieces left to be shattered or shared.

And now too she seeks to help someone

Who I guess for her, never really cared.

With no dreams left, 

And a soulless grave of her own,

She buried her hopes for having someone

By her side; she buried it within the body

That is called "hers", a grave that she considers it to be,

but has no part of herself in it.

Where the bones crackle at every step

And screams to be saved.

Where the veins shuddered and begged her to stop helping others for once,

And help herself instead.

And yet she's out again,

Pouring that "last ounce of her blood"

Into the cup of a "human" living.

Who would just go away after being done with her,

And she'll have no one around when she'd be the needing one,

When she'll lose it all to others and 

For her left, would be none.

 No one to bury this body 

Of hers within the land,

In a real grave;

She'd die, she'd rot,

She'd be lifeless and cold.

She'd be laying on that barren land calling it her home,

With no family or people to cry

Or to shower the petals but wry

Over how she was selfless and yet died alone,

For she'd still be the culprit, who wouldn't be serving the 'others' later on. ~Aditi✨