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40 days we have been apart and you are back – back to water dying of stagnancy, plants dying because they have not been watered, a dining table polka dotted for millimetres thick dust and a few mugs and plates that appear to be stationary since the beginning of time, water bottles you should not be drinking from, and a kitchen counter full of packaged food wrappers. You are back to a daughter who didn’t bother calling you before you took off even while knowing you fear flight, and to a husband who hasn’t kept his phone aside ever since you have arrived. My father and I have never stored water in pots, we have never tried to give life to green, we don’t eat on a dining table, we never drank from water bottles, we have always been fixing our own food, I don’t call anyone, and he has never been able to keep his phone off.

It is the way it has always been, the house just lacks parts of you in reminiscence that has a pungent stink, because dear Ma,

the three of us have never been family, and so we never learnt to make a home for anyone but our own selves.

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For You

Call me out on my insecurities,

and I will palpate bouquets out of the gashes

on my skin,

you can wish upon the dandelions that emerge

from my within.

I shall have no thorns; you can pluck for your garlands

all you may,

weave a headdress out of my daisies and your hair

shall never grey.

I will become the Garden of Eden, from where life

itself was born,

but contrast my own eternity, for life without death

is just forlorn.

I will be maliciously elegant, so all you breathe in

is unparalleled scent,

until your lungs only know fragrance and your

feet forget cement.

 

Call me out on my insecurities,

and I will shed them all for you,

so I can be fucking gorgeous,

and you can be beautiful too.

 

Goodnight

“How do you sleep after knowing you have wrecked a soul?”

 

The mirror with uplifting Post-its is looking

at me with pity that curls up under my eyes and

whimpers how the 13 hours of slumber weren’t so sound.

 

I warned them I was concentrated chaos contained in a vial

labeled ‘X’.

 

The lowermost drawer of my desk is trembling

as if the handwriting it stores is going to unravel and

embrace my neck so I lack of air in a brimming atmosphere.

 

I told them I wouldn’t turn to milkshake if they scribbled ‘Sugar’ on a

striked out ‘X’.

 

The pillow beneath my hair astray, is vomiting

out tears from a time when I was not the monster and

I feel myself drowning in agony which doesn’t belong to me.

 

I reminded them, that if uncorcked, I would flood every vein with an

Amplified ‘X’,

but they did not listen.

 

So now, to me, the Alphabet Song escalates to agonizingly disturbed harmony

as it reaches the letter third from last and

that, my friend, is the lullaby

that puts me to sleep.

Greatness

It is 46 minutes past 9, I’ve just woken up, and

The miniscule embrace of dry clothes on a clothesline, wild for gentle breeze

sweeps me with the 14th thought of “will I ever be able to make it big”

In the past 48 hours, and then I go brush my teeth.

 

Moments of self doubt probably wriggle up my sleeves

When I collect them a centimeter from my elbows

Before detangling all hushed out, dilemmatic, emotion

With double ply tissue paper and a blank word document,

And whisper sweet nothings in my ears in the few minutes I spend in

Only subtle existence – “You’re nothing, my darling, and nothing you will always be”.

I accept it for meditation.

 

Questions have choruses when they escape from amidst the polishing

Of Jupiter Red luxury cars, fluttering of the fancy paper of

Wedding cards with pastel aesthetic, and the jerk of a double breasted blazer

On a crisp white shirt, until I sing along but only in deranged melody,

And the opera plays in my head in concentric circles.

 

I read affinity displayed for me in little gestures, and it occurs to me that

When even time is a construct of human imagination,

What makes you think your love for me isn’t?

 

But then little thoughts make me laugh and in the bitter aches

Of lacked oxygen, I realize that there is no Big in the universe, just a splendid

Amount of Biggers, and sometimes,

Being just Big is big enough.

Wilted

Uproot me every once in a while

and wash me of the ground that I carry between my toes.

De-thorn me of my thoughts thought out loud because they hurt,

and dethrone me in the process,

put me in a vase; watch me die.

 

Petal by petal, leaf by leaf, I expose you to my idiosyncrasies,

witness me curl my fingers as I rip apart every sweater,

with my hair becoming static from the constant stripping of all

warmth I ever gave to myself, until all I carry is faded pollen

thoughts that crumble onto the mahogany of your table

and then brush them into a dustpan and throw them into the

basement of your psyche, amidst haunting

temptations to love me (I’m dying, we all are).

Do not deceive me by watering me, we both know you’re

only drowning my corpse, and if you do, sink me during dawn

in your bathtub, with all my thorns – I wish to revel in your blood,

in your agony,

in the fact that something stings you after

I prove the concept of mortality.

 

Watch me wear the colour of dead roses on my lips;

beautiful flowers were never meant to live.

Unfelt

I was sitting on a bench in a closed classroom,

and you were asking me why I do not look people in the eye;

I tried to divert you from the topic because I didn’t

have the profoundly inky explanation you were hoping to hear,

I simply didn’t know, and I know you didn’t care for simplicity.

Before time knew it, you were telling me how you don’t feel, and I

was blind and deaf to the concept, and too many questions

were spinning inside of me like a continuum of blizzards

until certain sentences barely had words and some had

14 question marks, but by then you had already pushed me

against the wall and the vowels, and consonants, and punctuation

marks slowly balanced themselves on the top of my floating ribs

as if I were a snow globe.

 

The next evening, the second and last day of us,

you suggested we run barefoot on grass reeking of concoctions

churned by setting suns and birdsongs to soothe the 7 types of pain

I felt in my feet from walking in shoes

that weren’t meant for me. And we did, with you pointing

out 4 goalposts with your arm half exposed under a clumsily

rolled up shirt sleeve, with me looking for the lipstick stains

on your collar that had mysteriously disappeared, with us, two

strangers, spending an evening made of yellowed-out pages of

a Mills and Boon, until it was time for us to never talk again.

 

In every remembrance of our 48 hour rendezvous

I would ponder how one couldn’t feel until exactly

365 days after us

I began tearing into people’s souls through their eyelashes,

and dancing them into scratched vinyls of Presley,

 

with my heart only being an audience

of only an abandoned stage

with only a spotlight illuminating

only particles of dust.