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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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

Wonder Woman

Wonder Woman

On some days, it takes
Twenty odd minutes, that whiz past
Like twenty breezy seconds
To separate each limb,
Contorted itself into an intangible mess
That is my body,
Trying to make sense of the harsh, morning air.

On some days, my dark circles will scare you;
My concealer isn’t as effective as the insomnia
That painted them as I lay awake,
Twisting the same thoughts and trying to fit them
Into boxes with labels of
“This is what it should be like”
And
“This is what it ought to be”.

On some days, I’m crawling under the burden
Of your snide remarks and leers,
Your hungry eyes grazing my legs
When I walk past in short skirts;
My red lipstick
A ruse I worked
To mask my blanched lips
So you can’t tell I’m skipping meals.

On some days, I can’t be the Wonder Woman
I want to be

For
I
Am
Tired

My head is reeling under the pressure
Of the monsters creating havoc,
And all I want
Is to
Dissolve.

On some days, I cannot handle
Questions I know I’ll eventually find
Answers to.
But maybe today, is not the day.
On some days, I would like to tell you
That a part of me
Skims over the maybes of our undefined reality.
But all the roads have footprints
So I know I’m in a labyrinth without a map,
That I will find,
But maybe today, is not the day.

On some days, I’m only trying
To keep my head above
Or learning to dive in deep –
A mermaid to my circumstances,
I’m trying out all magic potions
To help me find my feet.

 

 

On the other days, I breathe.

 

 

27 July 2017

Band-Aid

Band-Aid

The problem with
Soft hands, is that
Unlike soft hearts, they
Bleed freely
On being bruised.

And…
Out of habit,
You rummage into the medicine box
For a band-aid.

It settles cautiously,
Unassumingly,
Clumsily,
On your hurts –
Gaping and mauled and proud –
A tranquilizer
To obnoxious accidents.
An anesthetic
To foolish mistakes…

***

I would rather be the mishap, though,
And leave a mark…

(Like a fossil,
A memoir,
A scar.

Stay on…)

…Instead of the makeshift skin
You have me reduced to…

***

 

This, from an over-sensitive soul –
I’m tired of being that band-aid.

 

6 July 2017

(image courtesy: http://according2g.com/tag/band-aid-art/)