the shriek of my body, a purple loose hanging moon beneath the toes- a shriek so wild stretches through the carcass I have nothing left to weep now for the moon has taken a dip inside the river. I hear my village burning, and see people sleeping so quietly, so wildly as if nothing ever happened. A lullaby lost in a path- mouthless, a blue broken hemisphere. What do I do with my limbs now? How do I sit and regenerate in a porous night?
My loneliness spews from the dark curtains
/ fevering beneath a molted lampshade, running
amidst the hanging treehouse, a sharp blue gong of a temple.
Upon the arrival of next month, my tongue develops a sickness,
In a nonchalant abrupt way,
Defying the lucid crispness of nights,
I carry a storm of perforated stars in my womb,
delivering a slick wall of hope, again till the next month arrives.
I have a list of ways in which I take care of myself-
Practicing gratitude till the eyes die out of numb shocks,
Watching the surreal wings of birds, till I am being judged
And the process never ends,
Till the process of death is shining on my iris.
Buy my poetry collection ‘ Crimson Skins’ here- U.S
And for Indian readers buy your copies here-
The book is available as Kindle as well as on Barnes and Noble, Book Depository.
Blood into ink is a safe place for all the unheard voices of Survival and brave souls. Anyone who has suffered the cruelty or has been traumatized can submit their writings to the submission page of this bold journal. We would love to spread your voice and words.
Its a place for all the courageous souls who feel the pain, who knows the thirst and want to express it through their voices. Please feel free to share your writings and in the same process read the work of our fabulous fellow writers. Their writings are breathtaking!