they will come to you in their fake-friend uniform and you'll see them for what they are their eyes will smell like morsels of imminent betrayal and their perfect faces will echo " fair-weather friends" but you'll be so hurt-worn , so deprived of love , you'll let them in you'll somehow convince yourself into believing their kindness is generosity but yours an obligation you'll somehow deceive your heart into believing they'll stay after the night falls but before you know it they'll be gone like a most that leaves no trace as to how it left after convincing you it would stay only a mist fades completely into oblivion but the false hope they show you stay behind to taunt you after the party
Note - II
running away from who are is hard but running to who you want to be is even harder they will bring in their make-shift moral policies and scriptures to prove you impure (spoiler alert - they will succeed)
Note - III
never gift your heart to someone you know will never gift you theirs and by accident if you do you will never love again you will lose the art of loving and your heart will forget how to beat the moment you part ways with him coz no one will look like him smell like him have his gaze or his scent no will have his voice his name will burn like a fire but you'll him in your scalded palms untill even the ashes are a past
in another country people will die and people will kill for love but you'll be running crusades against love on valentine's day so darling lock the door
you will holler in the night when your mother's taunts dissolve into tears her sobs will be barrels of guns but you're already a terrorist
I was 7 when my teacher painted my cheeks red and they swelled like upheavals of red mud fresh from tectonic movements that day I came home feeling sullied and empty like the gift I never received ma asked me what had happened ? why tears had drawn a map on my face ? I didn't let her read the map I said," nothing " she told me I was an abomination well I can't say she was wrong because I did strangle the last bits of myself and left my bleached body for the vultures to dine on on a platter of my bones even they laughed at my clownish face fringed with laughs from the previous year -- they sprinkled trauma on me , and it burnt through my flesh like sulphuric acid so I dug out a hole on earth where flames meet fumes to sear your skin where laughing is forbidden I screamed into the hole and unnerved hell they asked me what ? I said ",nothing " silence became my mask and my mask became my identity now every hell I walk into looks like my classroom every love letter looks like a threat every palm I feel on my cheeks feels menacing like my teacher's my cheeks are eveready for red my blood is preparing to drown me my blood is a mirror of that building and there's a lump of flesh squirming in pain but the pulchritude in pain is insane grumbling about it is inane because this pain is brazen broken barren battered bruised every bell rings like a chorus of laughter every petal is writhing like my heart every rose smells faint like my fate and now every smile sneers at me
Roads are empty We'll fill them up with the symphony of our silence and sometimes with the songs of our arguments with fights over who will do the cleaning this weekend or who will do the dishes after relishing a dinner of paneer butter masala and naan or who will do this week's laundry we will fill it with our giggles
My hut from when I was a child is dilapidated Promise me you will help me rehabilitate it and make it into our dream castle we will paint it turquoise with a little less blue the floor will be linoleum and on the walls we will hang those hideous snapshots we took of eachother to imprison our moments
My back is aching from caring a history of archived grief , grief sidelined to be felt later please let your love be my balm and I swear mine will be yours
The cupboard is a mess let's un-mess it my clothes will be on the left and the yours on the right and we will get a new cupboard if need be we will get an ornate one with inbuilt hangers
My bookshelf burnt into ashes but you have the power of resurgence
Clothes are in tatters but you know how to weave and I know how to stitch Please tell me you will weave for me And I'll stitch your tatters into something high fashion and amicable like your smile
I wrote another poem about you last June and told everyone that was the last time I was writing about you told the winds I would no longer ask about what you ate what you wore how you were because I'd no longer write about you but my mind is a mine of you and unlike the writing the digging never stops you keep coming to dine at my place and I cook your favorite dinner and I ask you why wasn't I enough? why couldn't I suffice ? I could be everything to someone someday but I wanted to be something to you for one day the part of me that knew how to love died the moment we waved goodbye my skin froze the moment you stopped touching it now it's August and I'm writing about you I'm writing about how you like to retire to bed at 11 and on weekends you watch movies late into the night then you arouse at 10 and have a breakfast of 2 plain rotis dipped in chai you like your chai strong and sweet and you leave for college at 11 in the morning I'm writing about you because this love is a venom overflowing on to this paper unlike the supply of paper this love never ceases to exist you exist like the hiss of the wind like the hum of the fridge when I open it at midnight the way your touch opened my heart you exist like the commotion of a traffic jam like the blackness in the night like the light in the day You exist like the green of the grass like the blue in the azure skies like the dullness of the overcast sky you exist like my grief and lately my voice speaks only to hum your name I exist you exist in this wist - // you exist//
I'm plunging into a downward spiral like a minuscule meteoroid into a stiff stream .
There's something in common between the wild oceans and me -- We never change , We're forever blue
I'm the synonym for blue
Innocent like a wobbling infant's call for milk , I drift into the night sleepless
The milk is venom The dead men are on the run So I have closed the window Drawn the curtains But the door is on the latch The gate open like my blue lips Should the galaxies be bigger than my grief ,I'll smile
i. my bed is paved with a cloudy mattress there a moor is paved with dead bodies
tonight I slept listening to Fleetwood Mac record there children are sleeping listening to a lullaby of gunshots and screams they dream of what I have -- peace and a roof I can call home
ii. soldiers take their last breath there thinking of their beloved ones they salute their country before they drift to perpetual sleep
tonight I took a nice hot shower before Taylor Swift lulled me sleep and there a children are bathed in blood .
iii . " I'll come back with pride , watch out for me ", Vikram promised his love at the station as they kissed goodbye he did come back with pride but wrapped in the Indian flag but what matters is he came back
tonight I wore peach turtle neck and got some pictures clicked and there a father , a mother , a lover released a cry of grief
iv. Vikram's parents sing lamentations at 2 a.m. but in another country people rejoice because kindness to one is cruelty to another and cruelty to one is kindness to another .
tonight I dined on biriyani and there children dined on hunger
v. refugees flee the war-ravged country and sleep underneath the bridge as rain falls like their fate
tonight I slept on a new mattress there a moor is paved with dead bodies
// you can't be an angel again// I never realised devils and angels could co-exist in the same person untill I got to know you . I heard the devil lusting on my wound-bitten soul in you when I was young , and I saw your ethereal halo hovering in the air like a ring of angelic smoke when you stroked my hair I knew you but you never knew what you are -- you just kept altering between the eye of the devil and the eye of an angel . And I kept loving and I kept hating you -- you taught me it's possible for someone to love and hate a person at the same time .
We'll never again be our vintage vignettes , and I won't ever smile at you without regretting it for some relations are best left bruised like the one we have , for you're the stink of my past , for I'm an orphan clinging to the fingers of past .
You try your hand at redemption but you fail 'cause an angel can become the devil but the devil can't become an angel . You can take the sword back from my body but you can't take back the wound .
When you love , you don't just love their picture-perfect smile and their eyes attired in jubilation that you get at seeing the shores after years of floating aimlessly , you also love their flaws. Their flaws become the new universal definition of flawless . When you love ,you love the way the sky loves its blues . You love the way the raindrops love the parched ground . You love the way autumn loves the fallen fugitive leaves . You love the way a maiden loves her transient youth. You love the way midnights love overthinking. You love the way your teardrops love the curve of your cheeks . You love the way an eye loves an image. You become a songwriter. You become a poet. You become a painter. All in love.
Love can't be concealed. . It's visible in the quest of this one person burning in your eyes as you enter the hallway . In the dismay on not finding them. Love is visible in the red of your cheeks , not the cliched red of roses ,but the red on ripening lychees in your backyard . It's visible in the clothes you chose to wear just for them . In your sudden fetish for romantic stories on Instagram and those that you put just for them to see .
Love can be concealed? Try talking to them without fearing this is the last time the two of you get to talk . Try not to talk them -- you will be drowning in a pit of grief .
Love is audible . It can be heard in your freshly-softened voice while talking to them , in your newly-brewed politeness reserved only for them. In the nervousness in your voice. In your accelerating heartbeat while inching closer to them . In the way you call their name .
Love can be smelled in the aroma of the cake you specifically baked for them , and in the secretive perfume you spray on you just for them.
Love is audible and visible and can be smelled , and you try to repress it ?
A peony for your thoughts And two shots of whiskey for the road Is all I can offer you tonight, Maybe, a few stolen kisses won't hurt And rob our pockets When we buy buckets of fermented trust And luscious love With no expiration dates That's worthy of flash drives & memory cards.
How would you like me to remember you? Let's count the ways While we're sober enough To write our names in calligraphy Like cute tattoos on our wrists, Before you go Let me kiss you quick and slow, I want to know what's running on your mind When you look at me with eyes Hooded with a curtain of thick loneliness held in place by needles and safety pins.
Could it be that you wonder too If we can afford a temple of happiness And a slot of forever Somewhere in 7th heaven Even if it doesn't come with a price tag And nobody said it's for sale?
I wear a body Of frozen apologies, My existence is floating In smoke and I'm a vapor trapped In a bubble wrap, On days I'm suspended In the air Like a cloud Without a name, I say a little prayer For the sinner And saint in me, If I should die On the 1st day of summer, Remember me Not in tears, Bring no flowers To my grave, Sing me siren songs And mermaid hymns, Somewhere up there, I'll be watching you From the windows Of the laughing sun's Deep-seated brown eyes, And when the sky Undress her outfit of the day, Welcome me again With cherry blossom kisses And meteor showers, I'll be home one day, In another lifetime.
somewhere the songs of feminism are playing all around but somewhere there's still someone struggling on the beats of patriarchy, someone still faces misogyny and struggles to dance on the rhythms of feminism.
someone can still smell scents of patriarchy in the back of their house; patriarchy smells like a freshly burnt dish kept forcefully on someone's plate. they do not want to have it but they're forced to have it because they think they deserve it, because that's the ritual, because that's how it should be.
they welcome patriarchy daily when they eat the burnt and leftovers of the plate after their husband finishes his lunch, when they have to leave what they're doing to fulfil their responsibilities, when they wake up early in the morning not for themselves but for completing the household chores, when they're supposed to cook and clean even if they don't want to and mainly because they're supposed to, when they can't do their jobs just because girls are not supposed to be in the corporate world, when they're treated with disrespect for raising their voices, when they're called egoistic, rude and mannerless if they take a stand for themselves, when they prioritise men over themselves, when they get mistreated just because they're a woman, when they're supposed to leave whatever they're doing just because a male member of their family wants to get something done, when they're being taunted for studying too much, when they're told not to involve too much in studies because at last they're only supposed to cook, clean and take care of their family, when they shed tears and no one cares because women cry, that's what their personality is.
patriarchy stings still, it sucks out the self-respect, dignity, and everything else from the body of a woman. you might be dancing on the beats of feminism but patriarchy is still enjoying its role here, in the homes of people where misogyny prevails and feminism is crushed into bits and pieces. you might be smashing the patriarchy but some people are supposed to serve patriarchy and misogyny in the plates, they still feed it and throw out feminism as if it's a stone on their path.you might be enjoying feminism on your plate but somewhere someone is still served with patriarchy (garnished too good to look bad) on their plates.
I had my eyes closed when that cold breeze kissed my dozed face along with caressing the green happy shrubs of the mistletoe right in my sight as if was trying to touch and then compare who is happier at the time.
I could feel the moon trying talk to me gazing through the clouds, maybe, she was a bit covetous to see me in the warmth of your arms through that cold and blue night, as you were trying to put me a little closer to your heart, the moon started to fade, embracing her scars and hiding her face towards the other side of the earth so as she may give us space to conceal our hearts in the same sphere.
That mistletoe as was trying to call me around it and pour her love over us, maybe she never wanted to mark her presence for us kiss my lips down that green shrub, will you?
Maybe, I'm a little lucky or I'm a little luckier, cause, of course, I'm lucky as I got you by me, no matter how cold, dark and deep the night is, yours is the only light my eyes seeks for cause you only are the one I want to consecrate my time for.
// The moon is never alone, it's always around the closest star from a distance//
The clouds sloshing white curtains of lightening with red hot swords. The rain bleeds painting the giant canvas of sky in purple tones of acrylic. Sitting by the glassy windows and pouring limpid golden honey on top of my muffins, I watch the memories hung delicately inside the closet of my heart overflowing on the floor.
The floral garden in my heart perfumed with laveders that once bloomed under the warmth of my lover's arms has turned into a graveyard teeming with the whiff of betrayal. The chaotic and cruel wildfire burning the dense forest of my heart is spreading dangerously. The howling winds knocking on my wooden doors are the harbingers of melancholy humming the notes of deceit.
Those scarlet roses tucked safely that flushed my cheeks now seems thorny briars and pricky gross piercing my skin whenever I touch them. Putting his confederates in flames this morning couldn't burn the pages of tragic love story in which I played the lead role. Perhaps the sky is consoling me to weep in the rain outside so that no one could see the train of tears running down the track.
The petrichor is swollen with hope for me to breathe, to live and bloom again in the charismatic sparklers of the moonlight.