As long as the juices slips through the chest
the body smells of you-
the colours of enchanted wrist,
thawing thigh upon the quivering night.
We, the inked words of soil breaths
What callous strangeness is this that you speak of?
I know nothing-
just the land of marigolds blooming underneath my vagina-
a homeland to all the poets,
to all the musings and lanterns of dreams.
the late tide of the monsoon- is this not a reality?
This damp sheet.
This mosaic floor tiles-
Are we not really here?
Crimson Skins- MY book
my valiant soul
A dreamer and a believer for the upliftment of women rights. A published poet, author, writer. Believes in dancing and cooking amazing food for hungry souls at times.
Loves to write and write till the moon is satisfied.
My writings can be found at Visual Verse, Indian Periodical, Sick Lit mag, Duane's Poetree, Thistle magazine, among various others.
Curator of Olive Skins.
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