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)

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A Farewell Note

A Farewell Note

No, I don’t think of you anymore.
My memories have turned into pulp,
Soaked
In a clogged sink of broken smiles and practical solutions
That I clean out everyday so that
My whimsical fancies can still flow
Unhindered.

My kitchen counter is a diary
Of songs I stopped singing midway
And tears I couldn’t hold back –
I still cry on some days, in this city that feels like
The arms of a new paramour
With some vestiges of the cologne you wore on the last day
We made love.

Each time I rewind my memories,
They become a little rusted
A little faded
A little tattered on the edges;
I remember how you scorned at sentimentality.
I still listen to your songs on some days
And try to sing my own
But I can hardly identify my voice anymore.

I left a part of me with you on the last day we met
And maybe, it still haunts my favourite bookstores and cafés.
I’m not returning to you, not now
Not ever…
And even if I do
I’ll be your déja vu
You wouldn’t know where to place…

24 December 2017

Three P.M.

Three P.M.

[I]

Smoke –
Against your throat –
Creases, and an obscure
Curvature, juxtaposed –
A punch of
Citrus and cherries;
I buried my nose –
Your lips, promising no eternities
With your mouth, sucking my rationale
Right out of my throat;
My lust, dripping lazily
Between my thighs
Right up to my toes.

Your wall, a billboard
Of lives you want to lead
Of lies you want to believe;
A few more puffs and swings
A little more
Inebriated and crazed,
Leaving, a bitter taste in my mouth that
Made your tongue taste
A little less
Of cigarettes and regrets.

[II]

If my half-stringed sentences made sense,
You, my love, would see right through
My blunt ends, impersonating a double-edged sword –
I have played Russian Roulette this one time and it has
Stuck on to me, like an addiction,
Like I have been addicted to my memories,
Fast-forwarding them to the point that they have
Corroded beyond recognition.

When we exchange words, is it more like
A monetary transaction? –
Your utterances, carefully rehearsed,
Convey stilted facts in the garb of honest musings
While I so naïvely, rambled, along this unequal barter –
I bartered away my –

I have lost count, really.

[III]

Our bodies heaved, and fell
Never, in sync
But, in rhythm
When I suppressed my moans, it was only to let my body
Dwell in its ecstasies –
(As if perfumes have stayed loyal to the glass bottles
That had them encased.)

With a cigarette dangling from the
Cistern of an unused mouth, I
Crave for your stories from when you were a boy
With a heartbreak you tried so hard to make sense of,
You sewed it on your sleeves –
The carcass of a failed experiment.

I have trust issues from the day I saw my mirror lie to me.

 

 

1 November 2017

 

Picture Courtesy – tina-modotti-black-white-photography

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)

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/)