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.

 

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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.

Prayer

My body is a temple,

and you knew that so you left your shoes outside.

 

You walked in barefoot, and I thought you were being

vulnerable, because we leave our deceptions behind

temple gates, right? You skimmed my walls with your fingers

with every parikrama that you took around the deity

that was my soul, as if the inscriptions imbibed in them

since the beginning of time, made any sense to you.

You chanted mantras which resonated through all

parts of me, weaving, braiding through the ringing of bells.

They say that the vibrations of these shlokas make the air

around pious, and I thought you were only distilling purity in me

with your condescending voice, as if I were a mere room

and you were what made me a temple. You touched your head

to the ground, before me and I could feel the hot and the human in it

seep into me; your forehead was semi permeable and it let all

its arrogance, and anger, and selfishness  filter through to me, until I brimmed

of all things unholy. And then you looked right at me as if you had never

poked another soul until it oozed out all emotion with

the same brown, unapologetic eyes, as if shame, even just an ounce of it,

was prohibited to be vested in you. The chants and the ringing

was slowing down and the lull was getting louder and louder,

until silence vibrated violently through every room of me.

You joined your hands one last time, and I could see my innocence

choking from between them,

and then you left.

 

I knew it when you left your shoes outside

that you aren’t here to stay,

but my body is a temple –

 

it is open for all, I cannot shut out only those

who sin.

Wildflower

There was an age

When my eyes would lose your eyes,

At night, to my pillowcase,

And by the morning, as the sky celebrates

Its 4.54 billionth coronation

By adorning a sun as mark of legislation;

By the morning, you’d evaporate.

 

I would recollect you

Amidst afternoon-ish hours and twilit minutes

From lovers in café queues

From under dusty vows, and from all things untrue,

But as the sky would observe

Ink trickling out of the new monarch’s nerves,

Upon my pillowcase, you’ disappear from view.

 

But now, you’re archived,

Stacked neatly on the shelves of my subconscious

Since the last time I cried;

Stored in mason jars like old, stuttering Christmas lights.

No, I cannot lose you anymore,

For now my eyes have given up on downpour

And in this restrained tempest, you hide.

 

I can no longer cry you out of my system, I cannot rip you out of my skin,

 

For I’m afraid you’re braided into my soul

Like wildflowers in the hair of a 6 year old.

 

 

Inside the Snow Globe

Back when I was little

I thought the snow globe on my windowsill

Was amusing; I would shake it

Until the glitter started to swirl,

And I would watch it

Until it settled upon the rosy nose, and the dewy skin,

And the mittened hands of the little person

That I once adored so truly.

 

Time passed us by

And with it fled the days when

I thought the snow globe on my windowsill

Was amusing; I would leave it

Stationary before the window that moved up and down,

And I would give it

A fraction of a second’s worth of attention and then the usual

Eternal apathy, for staring out at freedom

Encased in a window did better than

Staring into confinement materialized into a snow globe.

 

Calendar dates faded out

Parallel to the kind smile on the person’s face

Whom I used to love so dearly when

I thought the snow globe on my windowsill

Was amusing; I could see its

Periwinkle blue innocence turn into indigo bruises

And I could sense its

Eyes projecting flashes of maniacal humour until it dragged me

By the collar of my nightgown inside the

Condemned, demented, cursed

Snow globe, away from the independence

That I once cherished so heartily

 

Time stands still

As I exist, curled up against glass which has

Curvature and not straightness; how could

I ever think the snow globe on my windowsill

Was amusing? I beg it,

Dropping to my knees, crossing my trembling hands, for mercy,

And I hear it

Laugh with coldness that couldn’t be found in

The snowiest of globes, while it chants that it has none to spare.

Timely, it drags me to the centre for the spectators

To rip me of all dignity with their atrocious terms,

As it counts reasons why I deserve so on his fingers, cackling.

I watch the glitter lose sparkle and become dust, and I realize

Women loving beasts into men exist only in fairy tales

 

Because man is only a choice away from monster.

Ignorant

The chandeliers hanging from your ear lobes

swing back and forth violently.

They kiss your neck,

and your shoulders,

and the fragrant air that lingers over your collarbones;

they touch and they go and my heart aches of nostalgia

because you did the same.

 

Oh, aren’t you tempestuous?

 

I strum the strings of my guitar

until my fingers know the colour of your lips,

but the tinkling chandeliers

chant choirs of independence,

and the last fluid puff of smoke

of your last lipstick stained cigarette

spells out d e m o c r a c y.

 

Aren’t you…

 

I howl into the moonless night

but it takes till dawn to reach you;

dawn, when you hum while making a cup of tea

for your hung-over father,

and it becomes a whisper

in front of his groans,

when you draw back the curtains and unleash

the stringent rays of mustard sunshine upon him.

 

Aren’t…

 

Alas! I sigh,

and rebellious of my reluctance,

my sighs caress wind chimes and falling leaves

as they leave in pursuit of you,

but by then you already are deafened

by symphonies of yourself being others’ muse,

and they all come rushing back,

and they mess up my hair,

and in a breath my fingertips are singed

with their radioactive agony.

 

Aren’t I…

 

The chandeliers are violent again

I’ve been listening, but you don’t hear.

 

Oh, aren’t I still lost in your tempest?

 

 

 

For a Change

Let’s give a day off to the sun; let’s call it Sunday.

 

For it is only in the darkness that we will realize that our

toenails are full of confetti.

Our scars will make love to our birthmarks and moonshine will leak

From behind our ears.

And the dark circles upon our cheekbones will reveal

a quality of phosphorescence.

Our elbows will twinkle and their follicles will tell us a secret –

they are made up of fairy dust (shhhh…)

The crevices between our feet and the grass, will emit

all shades of white neon,

and we will leave footprints of powder yellow florescence upon

the surface of water.

Our souls will prance above our heads and change colour when they touch another one,

and we will carry shadows of pastel light dancing on the black surface of land,

and every unlit part of our bodies will get a chance to shine

for we only recognize the light within us

when there is sheer ink around us.

 

So let’s give a day off to the moon; let’s call it Monday.

Let’s tell the heavens to put out the lights,

and for a change,

let’s shine for the skies tonight.