Occasionally, I talk to people I don’t really know. Asking them personal but not intimate questions often takes them unawares. It’s when they are most honest and… Read more “New York? Nah”
Dark and discoloured
Crumbling bits coating each line
The stares and the whispers and the wondering what could be wrong when everything seems right
That word, seems.
No one looks past what they see
No one questions out loud
No one remembers or is haunted by the sight of mutilated flesh
No one goes home
Not really home but an adequate term
And shudders in the emptiness of a mirror
And finds an unblemished spot
And digs into the soft flesh
It’s okay if it scars
At least these were chosen
A thousand times over
When your mother dies
When you question your morals, your sexuality,
When you fail to please someone
When you look at yourself in the mirror
You’ll break into shards dangerous mostly to yourself
I’ll fall apart several times a day
No real reason but you’ll find me on the floor
Spilled wine and crumbs of glass
Scattered empty boxes discarded when they move on
Please don’t step on me
In your rush to run away from the world and from yourself
I don’t want to hurt you
I don’t want you to hurt you.
Lie down beside me
Align your broken pieces with mine.
Let blood mix with wine
Your flesh with mine
And your mind into the abyss of this empty box
You reached for me,
Finger tips straining to touch.
I want you you said.
When my flesh recoiled and my eyes flashed past you,
You wondered why I didn’t believe you.
You couldn’t see that the greatest part of you was attached to your past.
I apologise. My French grammar is probably pathetic.
“What does it feel like, being lonely?”, he asked.
Deafening. The violent ricochet of my thoughts from the inside and the meaningless talk from those on the outside render my eardrums useless.
Empty. So empty
even if I scream, its echo won’t linger to temporarily fill the hollow space of my soul.
Frozen. All the words I have, had and would have had cemented in a cube of ice that only your mouth could melt.
There are crevasses in the cavern of my soul and my skull
Little spaces through which my whispers find you and
When they do, it’s not so lonely anymore.
It was the where you touched me.
Your fingers searched for meaning along the hardened ridges of my hips.
Probed between my ribs to find a way into my heart. You traced my collarbone, as if it would lead to a hidden part of me.
Your mouth would whisper “I love you”
All the while your hands said otherwise, knowing they couldn’t accept my flesh.
Being a non-Indian Indian in India means that I am simultaneously one of them but an outsider. It is a somewhat exposing but it also places me at… Read more “Illustrations of India”