the beast

I missed me being the beast,
Yet, I became like a dry, rough sponge
Missed being soaked in the bathtub of
Rose water with floating mild roses.

A lady of a genetic-lottery,
Has got put aside with contaminated whores,
Just waiting to be dusted off,

With the internally defeated fire of hers,
she feels nostalgic for her old, badass self
But with sarcasm she always skips,

Chapped, cracked lips
With trimmed, wilted nails
Turning on but exhausted thighs,
She was of a precious value.

Whipped and brought down by the bleakest reality of life,
Where neither males are to trust nor females are to count on.

Grown, she thinks she has became,
Like an elder, she treats herself,
Burying herself in the X generation.