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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

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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)

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/)

Stranger City

Stranger City

Stranger City, your wide roads
With unexpected turns
Gave glimpses –
A kaleidoscope of déja vu.

Your sunsets and long shadows,
Bathed in filtered rays
From orange curtains
Of forgotten days…
I look up, at towering skyscrapers
And dream of plunges and conversations
Doused in mirth and menace;
Will this crippling fear of vanishing hands
Not leave my side?

Stranger City, with your dazzle and
Flattery,
Like some new raiment mirrors crave
To reflect –
You will soon turn into rags and ashes
And haunt in-between my fingernails.

Do you know?
How in the middle of my heartbeats
I have tucked in memories
Like the sands of time;
And the waves are drawing them in.

Your fireflies and billboards
Are blurring the lines between
Myth and reality
Your foreign tongue makes noises
You call language
I try to hold on to strings
To make sense of.

Each minute, a recollection,
Strung on the threads
Of infinity.

Stranger city, I’m a stranger
In your roads and rendezvous and rainy skies.
I’m a stranger with a strange taste in my mouth
I cannot get rid of.

4 June 2017

Ellipsis

Ellipsis

Storms.

I’m gulping mouthful of lies,
Clinging on to a fistful of hope
Like dew drops on mangled spider webs,
I’m decorating my

Sores.

Each night, when I pull over
My thin sheets
I’m trying to hide
My invisible scars
That won’t stop resurfacing
In nightmares of old cassette reels,
Crammed of delectable

Heartbreaks.

Old habits swing on uneasy strings.
Broken clockworks sing no tune;
At wee hours of dawn,
I’ve forgotten what
Ambiguous skies look like
Since fear made me
Close my windows.
Every autumn, I’m
Erasing your imprints from my

Blackboard.

Dithering,
As showers in Spring
I’ve lost count of months
And your name is a distant
Ring, woven of forgotten thunderclaps
In untimely rain

22 April 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)