Mermaid

Mermaid

My edges, once sharp,
Blurred,
When I saw how melancholic your
Skies turned by evening.

I collected your clouds
In tiny satchels and paper bags
And read them like tarot cards –
Your face, in all its mirth,
Was paler than mine
In its sunset hues.

You should see,
How in my lunacy
I crave for your hands to lift my thoughts
And create little Plasticine dolls –
Do you know how much I’d give up,
To go up in smoke?

I dread on the days
My curtains weigh heavier than
The reproaches I hurl at myself
To make my skin bulletproof to your indifference.

I am a mermaid –
My body,
Is torn by halves
Into a minefield and the deep, blue sea.

18 January 2018

 

Image Courtesy: NVAL 2016 International Juried Photography Show Gold Selections“Trees with Birds” George Digalakis, Athens, Greece

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Wanderess

Wanderess

There was a girl who wanted
A ticket to the stars.
With a galaxy in her lungs, and peppermint eyes
She rummaged through dumpsters
Of ashen faces that spoke a bunch of decayed lies.
And on certain nights, she let out
A strangled cry.

She played with marbles,
And wholesome words
For which she apologized –
There was a girl with creepers of clichés,
And an obsessive need to spell her name
In case you missed the ‘Y’.
Her kisses tasted like echoes
And question marks from quoted lines.

Along the edge of a spider’s web
In an aquarium full of fireflies,
She smoked her lover’s cryptic words
Soaked, in a vat of contradictions.

We’re receding…receding…
To lilac Springs
In Technicolor,
And paper cranes
With broken wings.

28 December 2017

 

image courtesy: Sourav Chakraborty (https://www.facebook.com/Isglad?fref=hovercard&hc_location=chat)

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

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)

Lullabies and Lovesongs

Lullabies and Lovesongs

In a cesspool of decaying horrors,
Should I remain adrift?
Or sink?
You have decked me up like one of
Your
Miniature dolls,
And left me
On the shelf.

Why are you fading away?

By midnight, I grew tired
Picking pins from
My hands
So I don’t scratch off my dreams
In my sleep.

Are you leaving me to go to the other side?

An artist on the streets,
Performing contradictory feats
How long should I remain adrift in vain?
I quote dead poets in sighs
While my lovers stare, surprised;
I’m a shapeshifter, altering my skin.

Should you go away, love?

There is a song, stuck in my mind
And I’m trying to buy more time –
Trying…
Trying…

Dying.

21 June 2017

Tell-Tale(s)

Tell-Tale(s)

All my silent cries
Are two edged daggers,
Peeling the walls of
My throat
One swig at a time

While the stars danced
To vile tunes –
My melancholy was the crowbar
To force open
The drawers of self-loathing
And anxiety.

Purple nights crept up
Behind old walls
Of shadow puppets, playing out
Ghastly scenes in past tense;

You dwelt comfortably
In plagiarized tales,
Mimicking my skin;
Each night
I find myself,
Renewing the lease
Of your stay.

When I run out of metaphors,
There is Famine –
Gnawing,
At the cornice of my
Failed charade,
Or making love
To the tunes in my head –

I cannot tell.

22 March 2017

 

(Motel (2015), Clem Crosby Image courtesy Pippy Houldsworth gallery)

Midnight Letters

Midnight Letters

Orange sunsets from crumbling porches
Take me miles away
To lanes, doused in perfumed memories
Of old books and damp walls.
Like dust specks on spider webs,
I have decorated my fermented thoughts
With arbitrary imitations
And follies,
Pretending they were of imperative consequence.

How long does it take,
For a memory to go stale?
Even paper boats come with
Expiry dates.

I’m an accumulation of cities
And I cannot wipe away
The stains
That clings on to my identity.
I am a slave
To this symbiotic equation;
I cannot dissociate from this obsessive need
To feed off your existence.

Don’t be afraid
When I’m uncontrollable on some nights;
I take time to recuperate
From nightmares;
For they have me pinned down at gunpoint,
As they sew their shadows on my back
Like a black cape.

18 February 2017

(image source: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/248894316882654168/ )