i have lived a thousands lives,
yet this winter is like a moth.
it has eaten me up,
from my toenail to my collarbone.
now i am naked. skin in pieces.
this winter, shallow waters of broken promise.
this winter, a conch doused in anaemic water.
i am no human today.
i weep like my ceilings.
wrapped up in my own silent time.
Who would pick me up?
like moon conjuctured upon my laps,
drawing seismic patterns.
its all about this winters.
P.s I may be taking an off from here. You all still can find me on Instagram by the same name.
i guess, at times i walk on the waters,
the ebb, a reminder of my narrow chin.
i have a thing for kissing life.
and i do it precisely well.
i kiss and drink the sweetness,
the stars and the sound of the bells.
i metamorph into a syllabus of a veritable smirk.
dreams hold my mouth and put me back to sleep until i am awake like colours,
vibrant and throbbing a dark spot.
at times, i become seasons,
my body, a criss-cross of lanterns.
it’s small and beautiful.
And that’s how i inhale smoke,
my voice tore away like sunsets falling into the rivers.
streams of gushing ripples on my cheeks.
there was a time once,
when poetry was all Mediterranean Sea to me,
with potholes and hammers,
squirming noises of silence.
The semesters of trimmed life makes me a moon,
a person in illusion,
a mirage rising inside the languid skin.
you have a burning orange taste
like the room lit with forest.
dark and sequin patterns of lust.
i look at you and i dissolve,
a cape of Ganges.
From your cheeks,
i sip dews of dusk.
and i worship you like a dreamcatcher,
praying for your lucid footsteps,
A soft murmur inside a winter room.
cigarette lips and pink nails.
in your shadow of Auburn smoke,
lips wet like a half-baked moon.
let me trace your lavender skin,
a filament of my springs.
you would burn in waters,
if you could feel my skin now.
smudged dose of love, insipid flaky fingers
this arm hurts now from resurrecting my soul,
streams of rivers lynching my soft neck.
i long for love and loneliness altogether
cleaved moon dripping honey on pale skin.
you kept me breaking, like twings and forests.
sliced ounce of crooked lemon zest, burning.
it kept me hurting yet alive, you see.
i could feel the faulty facets
leaking sideways of my languid arms.
topsy turvy my tongue, this moment.
i am moth, sucking glaze from marigold,
camouflaging dust & bitter taste of you, perhaps.
this is me, this is survival now.
swallowing all that I see.
I wish to say a quick hi to all. I am currently passing through a rough time linked to many things. So, if my poetry is dark or surreal well hello, that’s me. You are free to read or to move away from my blog, but kindly do not be insensitive to my words. I really do not care about the likes or the count. Life is much more than that. Isn’t it?
my latest work published on Mad Swirl can be read here. Also, my poetries will be available soon on many upcoming anthologies. Hope you all still read my words? it’s up to you!
Back at my vintage house in India,
i have a memory dying there on the windowsill, a cobweb formation.
a moth sucking life from another.
there, a cataract lie envelopes my pale body.
i see myself each day hushing this array of
blue stack of migraines.
i disavowal what made my pink- poetry once.
and here i am, twitched and degenerated.
the doors creak like this bone dropping
a soundless gape.
anxiety turns a woman into a liquid flower,
Again, i am an organ supporting my another organ, all alone.
my body is abnormally sensitive.
this mind a warehouse. And often, i walk
like a succumbed thing.
and home doesn’t feel like home anymore.
with my arms regenerating at nights,
to sulk my sins. Moist.
Women hear a falling noise. It savours their skin.
i see you spreading like blob of colors
sunset inside your mouth,
a hundred nights of sickness grows.
somewhere, arms growing like a living room.
mother, your chin spewed chemicals,
on the night I was born.
1:00 am. a night that swallowed both of us.
You carried varicose time on your sickening waist,
like time made you of clay.
and you heard my voice of lace mucus.
screams growing like fingernails.
you said i must grow, where ever planted.
mosaic pieces stuck to my pharynx.
big- boned, thin legged,
i am 26 today mother, i still bleed,
the way you did last night.
am i you? or life is ingested like you
into my system.
i try shutting my eyes,
a thing you detached from your wrist.