Story of Rebellion

Queen crashed one night. 

Queen's my motorbike.

My constant companion to all my rides.

Without her, I'd be stranded. Unable to move.

Two wheels and a lot of room for me and my dreams.

One night, we rode down the familiar road back home. A man drove his autorickshaw into the middle of the road. So queen crashed into it.

He told me it was my fault. 

Itokke sredhikkande ambane? He said. You should watch were you are going young girl.

Oh how my voice raised.

I noticed bits and pieces of queen down the road.

Broke my heart.

Her body full of scars. 

It was your fault - he insisted! So I called him every word in the dictionary.

Funny how we all think we are the victim in our version of the story. Then I picked up the parts of my motorbike and left, still angry.

Yet another day, I took her for a ride.

She did not complain. I see people staring at her when we pass by.

They probably are looking at her scars, her damages.

I smirk. It wasn't our fault.

We knew it.

My body just like her, is covered with scars.

Scars of the wounds my body had to endure.

Surgeries, injections, self-inflicted. The list goes on.

I remember hiding away the scars. 

When people stared, my scars burned under my skin.

But now,I've grown fond of them.

Like a part of myself.

Every scar on me is a story. 

"Oh what happend?" - 

"this?? A dark time I overcame" 

Queen and I look alot similar now.

I am not ashamed of her scars and scratches.

Reminds us of a time, we stood up to the rougue driver carelessly crashing into us.

A story of rebellion!