How do I love myself? –
A draggled mess of rotting flesh
Gift-wrapped in a pretty package
Of plastered smiles and frayed dreams
And absurdities –
I have measured my highs
In varied stages of ecstasy
And one of them even made me believe
That my indifference is leading a double life
My 2 A.M. self and 6 P.M. beliefs
When my skin changes colour,
Like dull Autumn leaves
No Spring or Summer could be
What would you know?
Of violence painted as battle scars
Of monosyllables cloaking my S.O.S
Like a magic trick…
I won’t look at my hands and wonder
Why my fists weren’t firm enough
To hold back the vestiges
Of our meaningless sighs.
18 February 2018
I seek thrills and frills
In motley distractions
And amnesiac pills –
I roll up into a ball of lies
My heart, a bulbous paperweight
Is a poltergeist in disguise.
For I have the soul of a wretched magpie
Obsessed with your gemstone eyes.
And I bleed…and bleed…and bleed…
Love’s slow death
One gasp at a time,
My tongue grows numb and asinine
In your mouth, I swallow words
And make a count –
I keep a memorabilia of your frowns.
For you mauled my thoughts
With a carving knife.
Have me wrecked in two –
I repeat my sentences till they sound
14 February 2018
For every utterance
Would raise a smoke
And I, emaciated from the lack of
Would slowly creep into the furnace
To find my home.
I have cold feet from nightmares
Where I’m falling into an abyss
Of your seduction, your words moisten
My inner thighs –
I’ve stopped looking for distorted mirrors
In the eyes of strangers
Who force my nonchalance
Into tight-fitting clothes
And put me up for show.
I rise in smoke –
For in this deafening silence,
We are alone together, tracing outlines
Of our nameless failures
Packed in little boxes with felt pen labels –
We have climbed into the box,
To feel its teeth, sink into our flesh
Tearing us apart,
One memory at a time –
We have toyed with the idea
Our petty narratives
4 February 2018
My edges, once sharp,
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 –
Is torn by halves
Into a minefield and the deep, blue sea.
18 January 2018
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.
To lilac Springs
And paper cranes
With broken wings.
28 December 2017
image courtesy: Sourav Chakraborty (https://www.facebook.com/Isglad?fref=hovercard&hc_location=chat)
The calm, unperturbed body
Is the first layer.
Perfect eyes, lips, skin.
Perfect clockwork smile.
I peel off my skin with the kitchen knife sometimes
To make sure if I still reside
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
10 October 2017
Your fingers in
Had more frost
Than mine could in December.
Even when you clipped
The wings off the
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…?
In my humiliation,
I chopped off mine.
6 October 2017
(image courtesy: @petitesluxures)