Sins

Sins

I cannot tell the feeble sound of conch shells,
From the monotonous patter of the raindrops
On obscure puddles.
Like the never-ending gossip
Of idle people,
The murmuring is punctuated with uncertain beats of the dhak
Pert
Crisp
Eventually melting,
Blending
With the sensual wisps of camphor –
A potpourri of nostalgia and yearning.

My body aches and shivers;
I am no Believer,
And yet, I would make love to you
In the backdrop of incantations.
I would transgress with you
In the haze of incense and spice.
I would climax
Over…
And over…
And over…
Your whisper, louder than the loudest
Dhak, louder than the
Conch shells, louder than the sonorous drawls
Of devotees;
Their voices, only half as loud as the desires,
That swarm in the pit of their souls,
Easily forgetting, that the Gods
Are no wish-granting machines.

Fireworks echo into the night,
As I wake up to
A stifled sky
With soot collected under earthen lamps,
Imitating the soot
Dripping from the corner of my eyes.
I did not offer a hibiscus at Her feet,
And chose instead to plant one
At the edge of your neck.

I watch it wither
Along with the dying fragrance
Of camphor, blended in rain.

 

 
20 October 2017

 

Image Courtesy: deviantart.net

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Silence(d)

Silence(d)

I was sixteen when my mouth
Was forced open
With an unfamiliar tongue, dripping of lust;
Chapped lips,
Violently brushing against mine…

Hands.
Hands.
Hands.

I belched enough saliva,
As I watched my guilt trickle down the drain
To accumulate
In a cesspool
Of blood, tears and similar tales.

Buses, trams, metros…
Invisible hands.
Ghost hands.
Under my skirt.
On my breasts.
Around my hips.
Everyone. Wants. It.
A bit of it.
A lot of it.
ALL of it, if they could.
Devouring,
With eyes and leers and
Unsolicited hands up my thighs…

What do you even do with scars
That no make-up can hide?
I poured them
In cologne bottles
To put it away in a cool, dry place
At the back of my mind.

And we are urban fireflies
In a concrete jungle
With several, greedy hands,
Lusting to taste our light.

17 October 2017

Matryoshka

Matryoshka

The calm, unperturbed body
Is the first layer.
Perfect eyes, lips, skin.
Perfect clockwork smile.

Skin…

I peel off my skin with the kitchen knife sometimes
To make sure if I still reside
In me.
I make sure if my walls are soundproof,
My windows, bulletproof,
And my attic, decluttered and ready
To hide my chaos…

I have locked in my chaos
In the wardrobe of I am fine
In the iron trunk of I am exaggerating
In the bureau drawer of It’s just a phase.

It is not a phase.

By the time you have reached
The second layer,
You will try to second-guess the restlessness in my blank orbs,
You will try to figure out why I am a problem,
You will try to calculate the equation of my violent sobs.
But you will give up
At the third layer…

And I won’t blame you
For not even trying to venture
Into the fourth, fifth, sixth…
Because your eyes will speak what I have always known –
My mind is a barren land
Of plastic bag relationships and open sewers of insecurity.

But don’t you worry –
You will never go beyond the first layer
Anyway.

10 October 2017

Switch

Switch

Autumn was crammed carelessly
On the shelf of Transition
Where she sat, uncomfortably,
Between hurts and healing.

***

There is barely enough leg space
On the days I want climb up the shelf
And look down at the world below;
Humans appear less condescending,
Less selfish,
Less ignorant.
They usually do not.

***
Between Summers and Winters,
I was Autumn –
A phase.
My transient words sound like lies,
Once mixed with spirits.
So I pour it back and fasten the cork –
I am inebriation,
Wrapped in innocent banter.

***
Autumn was a paramour
Dangling from wires of
Maybes and probablys…

…Hoping its crimson
Would mean something
Someday…

8 October 2017

Fingers

Fingers

Your fingers in
May
Had more frost
Than mine could in December.

Even when you clipped
The wings off the
Dying butterfly,
I echoed
Your callous laughter,
Not realising, that when your fingers
Graze down my spine
They are searching for
Other fragile wings
To tear apart.

I have felt
Your fingers inside me
Curl into a question mark,
Searching for answers
Between my thighs…

Did they pause in astonishment…?
Did they not know
Of wings that find a way
To bleed from
The tiniest cracks…?

Your fingers…

Played me.
Berated me.
Unmade me.

In my humiliation,
I chopped off mine.

 

6 October 2017

 

(image courtesy: @petitesluxures)

Identities

Identities

I am a
Foil;

Malleable.
A little crushed,
Under the enormous weight

Of unfinished tales –
I can’t bear burdens;
My bones ache
With stardust and gunpowder

As I breathe.

I am a
Fragment;

Lost.
A discarded alphabet
From your directory
Of unmade beds.

Standing by your doorsteps,

I am a
Cadaver
And a
Cemetery;
I bury my own self.

5 October 2017

Voices

Voices

The night I lost my voice,
I remember how the sky looked.

I panicked, as I couldn’t recall
The last place
I had left it
For safekeeping.
Or was it there
As a keepsake (?)
With someone, who sang to me
On the nights I’d run out
Of spirits and excuses?

The night I lost my voice,
You were right there.

Unconcerned, indifferent.
A flimsy shadow with blurred outlines
That I had cautiously fortified
Like one of my trinkets
In the blue rusted box I should have discarded
When I still had the time…

The night I lost my voice,
I decided to slip into oblivion.

While a thousand voices caroused
And strayed,
I collected my syllables,
Wrapped them with care.

I remember, though, the colour of the air.

20 September 2017