Old School Love | Seemi Shah

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

even in this modern era,

i still believe and love in old school ways;

resting my head on my shoulder,

holding your hands,

which shows am proud to have you,

going on long walks on the beach with you

under dreamy sunset,

and build sand-castle

as if we are eight year old.

can we delete the virtual dating ways,

and fall in love like old school ways.

can we delete long video calls,

and fall in love again by going to theme park.

can we delete different time-zone,

and fall in love again

by getting settled down in one country.

can we have some pillow fights,

and eating ice-cream after midnight

waking you up by playing the horror music,

letting you inside the house

only after you say the right password;

most importantly,

can I see you everyday?

and breathe in the same air as you,

no virtual thing in between us.

Just A Phase | Sansriti Suman

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

Thousands of words in your mind,

But you have nothing to say.

Tons of people by your side,

But none when you have something to relay.

They say I am paranoid, they say it's teenage,

They say it's just a phase that would be gone one day.

One moment I am happy, the other I am sad

It's difficult even for me to understand the complexity of emotions that I have.

Still I understand or maybe I am pretending to understand what they have to say.

But there's something inside telling me-

What you're feeling is not okay.

They say it's alright to have these feelings.

They say they are there to listen to me,

But when I try to talk they shut me down saying

"It's just a phase and I should take it easy."

Perhaps that's how life is,

Perhaps everyone goes through something like this,

But for me it's my first time

So, I don't want to listen to people's advises.

I want to feel, know and explore myself.

I want to trust my emotions.

Cause even if it is just teenage,

Even if all this is just in my mind,

I know I deserve this chance

As I am one of a kind.

Tea Cup That Stood Still | TJ

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

Over the moon and down the hill,

I spotted a tea cup that stood still.

Beaten on luck, a lazy clan of three,

unwilling to move, whatever it might be.

Failing eyes goaded the elder to foresee.

My back hurts, how can you ask me?

Fighting deadlines, father altered to a demon.

Where is my cup of tea, to rid this exertion?

Mind-numbing studies, left son teary eyed;

it possibly cant be me, I need to hide!

Humorous to some, torturous to few.

Over the moon and down the hill,

I spotted a tea cup that no one could fill.

Living with Ghosts | Anju Mariya Babu V

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

Prelude

‘Don't take things too seriously', They say

And what if it still haunts you?

bury it alive, the one

that consumed your waking days,

All that you can do.

And lend it a burial.

Ceremonial and ritualistic.

POV: Let's talk about pathological reminiscences and living with ghosts.

When you become strange to yourself,

the 'stranger' in you will slowly awake.

Then your entire life will become a waking nightmare.

There are moments,

when you bleed inside-out

not knowing, when will the last drop of blood

ooze out and drain.

These are those scars,

that will remain forever.

And incurable with time.

Still, like a thorn, it will cause you to bleed.

Then you will build a coffin

and after reciting the ceremonial prayers,

Will close and seal it.

And will bury in the depths of the sea.

Because you know, if you open it again,

you have to live with that haunting body again.

Now you know, you will start to live with ghosts

arisen from the buried body.

Because you have buried it alive.

And now, cursed to live with ghosts.

Epilogue

I know, writing will save one from one's heart wreckage,

and it's safe to bleed in the paper than alone!

Our Ambassador Car | Gopikrishnan Kottoor

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

Our brand new Ambassador car

Was all painted ivory.

I remember how then, I danced round and round

Like it was a golden tambourine.

Mother kept jasmine flowers

Hanging upon its laughing bonnet

Young smoking father, he

broke two coconuts

upon its engine,

to drive away the devils and the gremlins.

And our driver stomped into the hard steering

driving his Bela kiss mush

lit jog sticks, and pinned

them there into the air vent

like she was a girl that must be perfumed

before first night .

We turned the yellow thing

Into a pinned lemon butterfly.

Well, now with hands gone shaking

this morning I wake from sleep,

in a dream of dead dogs

& red kitten heads

rolling from

the old school book shelf,

With the ghosts of father and

mother

framed upon dead skin on the wall

and love

Steaming from its boiling radiator;

My childhood dead in its red oxide dickey.

Tea Party | Christianez Ratna Kiruba

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

Amma and I, evening sunlight

Couch and vanilla chai

Television and media, corrupting the youth

Glory days

No mentions of child abuse

Therefore, no child abuse

No television or media, corrupting the youth

Correlation is causation

For Amma.

My shrill sure voice pipes up

Every woman I've ever known has been abused as a child.

Every. Single. Woman.

I freeze that second, offer it to her in my hands

Time mists around us as I wait

Crystallising.

Ask me.

Ask me, if it was ever me.

Amma looks uncomfortable

Clears throat sips tea

Television and media

Kids these days.

The moment breaks

Shatters

Time rushes back into the watch towers, clocks, and hourglasses.

And I am back

In the mouth of the wolf

Strange hands across my flesh

A little girl

Afraid to call for help

Afraid no one would come if she did

But now it’s worse

Now she knows.

वैश्या! | Roopali Thakur

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

शशशश!

नाम मत लेना कुछ ऐसा काम है मेरा,

सुना है जो आया मेरी चोखट बदनाम है वो सवेरा।

हाँ हूँ मै एक वेश्या!

औऱ जिस्म को बेचना काम है मेरा।

दिख जाऊँ जो अपनी गली से कहीं बाहर,

तो लोग पूछ बैठते हैं आपस में!

कि शरीफों के मोहल्ले में क्या काम है मेरा?

समझा न कोई शायद न कोई समझ पाएगा,

जो मेरे पास आता है वो मर्द कहाँ बदनाम है तेरा?

मुझे भी इज़्ज़त की जन्दगी जीने का शौक था,

था मुझे भी ख़ुश रहने का हक!.

पर कुछ मजबूरियां थी मेरी,

औऱ शायद पता भी न था मुझे इस जिंदगी का सच,

जब कुछ लोगो ने पकड़ कर,

मुझे इन गलियों की दीवारों में दिया था रच।

हाँ हूँ मै एक वेश्या!

चाहत थी मेरी भी कि हो एक छोटा सा आशियाँ,

था मुझे भी शौक खिलौनों का।

उम्र कहाँ थी मेरी कि समझ पाती क्या गलत? क्या सही?

जब तक समझा ये सबकुछ मुझे बहुत देर हो गई।

हुई चाहत मुझे भी सच्ची मोहब्ब्त की,

था ख्वाब मेरा भी कि किसी के साथ घर बसाऊंगी।

पर न जाने कौन सी ऐसी गलती हुई,

कि मेरी सारी खुशियाँ जिस्म फरोशी में बदल गई।

हाँ हूँ मै एक वेश्या!

मैंने भी अपने अरमानों को अपने हाथों से जलाया है,

क्योंकि पल-पल शरीफ़ों की दुनियाँ वालो ने,

मुझे क्या हूँ मै? ये एहसास दिलाया है।

कुछ ने सिर्फ मेरी गलियों में आकर दिल को बहलाया हैं,

हाँ कुछ महान ऐसे भी हुए,

जिन्हों ने मेरी खूबसूरती को देख कर सहानुभूति को बखूबी दिखया है।

हाँ हूँ मै एक वेश्या!

रूह तक कांप जाएगी जब सुनोगे सच मेरा,

मैंने भी कभी सपनों की रात के बाद चाहा था खुशियों का सवेरा।

कभी सोचा है? कोई नहीं चुनता ऐसी रहा,

जिस पर बन जाता हैं हम लोगो का रैन बसेरा।

बदनाम हुई हूँ मै थूका जाता है मुझ पर,

ये कोई नहीं समझा कि जब होता है उजाला सारी दुनियाँ में,

तो हमारी गलियों में क्यों रहता है अंधेरा?

हाँ हूँ मै एक वेश्या!

अब सिर्फ लेती हुन साँसे मै,

कभी जिंदगी को हंसी के साथ जीने का अरमान था मेरा।

शशशश!

नाम मत लेना कुछ ऐसा काम है मेरा,

सुना है जो आया मेरी चोखट बदनाम है वो सवेरा।

हाँ हूँ मै एक वेश्या!

That is life | Annyesha Chakraborty

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

Something was missing deep inside,

My soul, if you get it,

When I was smiling creepily looking at the mirror,

Thinking about other people's misery,

Their fallacy, mistakes,

Reliving in pleasure,

As if untouched by empathy,

Yes, for a moment I've become numb of all emotions,

Selfish to the core, to fill my heart with false sense of superiority,

I was devoid of all goodness,

I was prancing with self- conceit,

Yet, that was short-lived as I came back to myself,

How far can pessimism take someone,

How far can those negative thoughts fuel your egos,

In the end you feel empty, heart feels heavy with guilt,

A very dangerous feeling indeed,

But it is part of being human they say,

It's a test we have to give from time to time,

In the difficulties when we feel like a failure,

Or not good enough, yet how humble can we be,

How much strength's inside, to put a smile on face,

But these darknesses will lurk yet how we overcome them,

And keep fighting with them and ourselves,

To be better than now, yes that is life,

Yes that is life

Gratitude | Smruti Suresh Chandra Beohar

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

I am grateful to the mighty Sun and the gentle wind,

That have rendered a beautiful life for us to glisten.

I am grateful to all my friends. family and kin

I am grateful to the huge fatherly mountains,

That act as a powerful force to reckon.

I am grateful to the glistening rain drops,

That quench the thirst of barren lands within.

I am grateful to true and humble souls

Who have fostered my faith in mankind and brethren.

I am grateful to dense green forests,

That have rekindled and stirred my soul within.

I urge every soul to patiently listen,

Count their blessings and Sing a hymn.

As one treads along the journey of Life,

Expressing True gratitude is a valuable lesson to imbibe.

Where Flowers Grow | Soumojit Bose

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

Upon a hill I carried her,

To put her in the ground.

In a place where flowers grow,

Is where I laid her down.

I walk that hill each morning,

To the flowers by the spring.

In that place where flowers grow,

I can hear the angels sing.

Among the morning glories,

A rose stands tall and true.

In that place where flowers grow,

Has become a part of you.

I'll walk this hill each morning,

'Til my hair starts turning gray.

Then in that place where flowers grow,

Beside you I will lay.

And when my life on Earth is gone,

The world will finally know;

Love is found atop that hill,

In a place where flowers grow.

teenage dirtbag | Harshini Mutha

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

i have tasted many mouths

and none of them were holy.

in my wasteland of rotten thoughts

all i remember is your damp hair and the gun under your pillow

and i can't think of the last time i prayed

but the last time i said 'my god'

was in the back of your throat

and i remember distinctly when my hands were in your hair.

laughter hidden on our lips

in the parking lot of 23rd.

i write about you more often than I'd like to admit

and think of you more than i remember you

i miss you, but i don't know what it is that i miss

and i wish i could call you

but i wouldn't know where to start

i wouldn't know when to stop.

seasons of self | Pranjal Pandya

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

in October we met

in November i hated your face

in December we fell in love

with snow, cold mornings and each other

January through February

we filled empty parts of one another

and became a part of a universe i didn't know existed

in March i saw the sun in us

in April i felt the heat

in May i burned

in June i was ashes

in July i was the wind carrying the heartbreak

in August i felt myself discarding the love you gave

in September i was beginning to see new colors

October came again

i began to become whole again.

- a year of revelations

That's how I pluck myself to death | Rakshita Tripathi

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

Your wall clock suggests that the time of the day is not what you want. It's 4 minutes to 8.30 in the morning.

Boring. Blasphemous. Brittle.

You can get up, and slide the Bhujodi shawl off your shoulders, stretch your knees and undo the act of becoming a cucoon. You can breathe, unwrap yourself out of your loneliness, and take a step towards mirror.

Instead, you stay. There's a sour taste in your mouth - acidic, more like an aftertaste of seeing yourself. The mauve-colored nails are chipped into sediments, near your pillow. There are threads lurking out of your shadow.

It's 8.30 now.

It would be 8.31,

Then 8.32,

Then 8.33,

Then 8.34,

And then 8.35.

Time lapses in seconds,

And in number of words you can utter.

Your silence has reached its zenith -

A friend is calling,

The cat is purring.

Your lips are quivering,

Your feet is shivering.

The project manager is yelling,

The toaster is pinging.

But the distance between your eyelashes and eyelids is decreasing.

The ceiling above you is reducing

into an incomputable mass.

Here, in this room,

Einstein fails, and Newton gives up.

Your nerves are throbbing,

And you're thinking. Again?

Yes, again.

You remember you had once told:

If a person goes out to pluck a flower,

No matter what color it is,

And no matter how it smells,

And no matter when it blooms,

And no matter where its vastness lies.

The person awaits -

The season of wilting.

Now, do you realise how enigmatically you're becoming the person you'd warned everyone about?

You're plucking the pores of your skin.

//And how - like this - in a scratching, scribbling, struggling way.

//And how - like this - in a denuding, deserting, deafening way.

//And how - like this - in a lonely, lamenting, lurching way.

Sea | Priyasha Saxena

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

Cool sea breeze,

Ruffling through my hair,

Swishing of the blue, beneath my feet,

The cushioned grains of soft sand,

Nothing less than a luxury…

The horizon, never ending

Goes on and on,

Showing off its might,

Outlining the everlasting waters below…

The sun, with a tinge of gold,

Spreads its art on the turquoise canvas below,

Such a canvas, magical I say,

Changes from the color of daylight,

To the goth of night…

Seemingly dangerous, yet so beautiful,

One can just not resist,

Yes it is evil,

as it engulfs anyone with its,

Astounding poise and fascinating beauty…

So evil, yet so calm,

Deceives with a true charm…

A gentle stroll,

Along the coast,

With the splatter of peace and joy…

Nothing can be more peaceful,

Than the water chatting, as you pass by…

தமிழத்தாயின் திறமை | Kanishkar Baskar

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

தன் பிறப்பின் பயனை உலகம் அறிய,

காகிதம் ஒன்று ஓவியம் ஆக,

வர்ணம் வாழும் வானவில் தேடி

காற்றில் கனவுடன் பறந்து திரிந்து

தோல்வியில் தரைமேல் தவழ்வது கண்டு ,

நிறங்கள் ஏழும் நயத்தில் பிணையும்

சித்திரமும் சித்தரிக்க இயலா பொருளை

கருப்பு மை ஒன்றின் துணையைக் கொண்டு

கவிதை கலை வழி கசிக்கும் தமிழால்

தாழ்அதன் வாழ்வினை புதுப்பித்த பேனா !!!

Kids Anyway | Immane Shiphrah

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

Aren't we all kids anyway?

Sometimes we act like we're grown up

Pretend to understand things

Turning major, doing drugs

We try to act cool .

But at the end of the party

with a glass of beer

Sitting on the sofa,

Have you ever felt it deep down

Does it make your heart inflate

Does this thought break your ribs...

Aren't we kids anyway?

We pretend to be strong and wise

We shower people with solutions for pain

We sometimes start to advise

While we ourselves are trying to not go insane

When you lie on your bed

And your room is dark

Thoughts running through your head

Heart beating fast

When all the grown up feeling fades

Do you hear a whisper,

Aren't we kids anyway?

Running behind an icecream van

Shouting in front of a pedestal fan

Still watching age old cartoon

Still laughing for silly jokes

Longing for amma's hug

Missing appa's guidance

Running into a stranger's arms

Trying to feel loved one more time..

Tell me, aren't we kids anyway?

Wheel of Life | Divya M

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

Is there anything permanent here?

Everyone i love will be gone.

One by one, we will all disappear.

Do we have a place where we really belong?

At the end of our last breath,

We foregather with the soil.

Where awaits our death.

Where, our blood no longer boils

No longer, will you possess emotions

All your love, hate and fury goes in the wind.

Is there anything to still this cessation?

Nothing will last, to find.

No precious years of youth,

Pulled together will give you evermore.

Cuz, there is no forever.

That is the harsh truth.

A bud dies,

A flower blooms.

An egg breaks,

A chick cheeps.

A newborn’s first cry,

A new life.

There are new beginnings

for every cruel end.

Thereupon, always be forgiving

Be it a stranger or a friend.

Don't let any moment hold you down.

Seconds tick by, not waiting for anyone.

Be it good days or bad days, all shall drown.

Ergo till we last, throw away that frown.

And shine away like the sun.

For this wheel of life, ever lasts .

The Beginning of the End | Sukanya Garg

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

Where does the forest end

And man’s dominion begin?

Where does the land disappear into the sky

Wiping the slate clean of his whim?

The falling apple from the tree,

Who does it belong to

You or me?

Hands soiled with imprudent plucking,

Minds infested with falsified need,

Breath,

Taste,

Smell,

Sight,

Senses corrupted,

Increasingly emptied of what they most need.

Skin,

Faces,

Stained in shades of

The earth and the sky,

Eyes

In Blues,

Blacks,

Browns,

And greens,

Peering out,

Seeking those virginal shades

Across the landscape

Of disembowelling dreams,

Hungering

What was stripped off,

Bartered in greed,

Staring emptily into horizons

Wondering,

Where does the forest end

And man’s subversion begin?

When will the land disappear into the sky

Wiping the slate clean of his whim?

Saying Good Bye to an Alzheimer's Patient | Neeta Agarwal Doshi

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

Goodbyes are always awkward, even upsetting,

But there is always a hope of another meeting.

Losing someone to death is heart-breaking,

Years of a relationship, come down crumbling,

There is no hope left, only a treasure trove of memories,

The final goodbye is painful and is the toughest of all adieus.

Gradually though, time heals the pain of the inevitable loss,

Death gives a sense of closure and memories carry you across.

This, though gut-wrenching, is the truth of our lifecycle,

Those who are born will pass on, there can be no denial.

But how does one cope with the loss of a living person,

Afflicted by a disease that causes mental deterioration.

Slowly the memory fades, the person lives in a fuzzy delirium,

Everything you meant to each other gets tossed into oblivion.

Wiping a slate clean to start afresh is a very good thing,

Wiping clean the memory, however, just turns your life into nothing.

A life full of loving and nurturing, crying and laughing,

Turns to dust, if you can’t recount them in the passing.

Thinking and reasoning become strenuous and take a toll,

It challenges a person to the core, their very soul.

Their life may or may not have been a walk in the park,

But it was theirs, built with dedication and hard work.

Unsure of their fate, they went on, giving their best shot,

They did it to make sure their loved ones were never in a spot.

It’s just not fair then, to be meted out such a fate,

Everything they worked for, goes out the gate.

Disasters, upsets, and bad people they survived,

Of a happy retired life, how can they be deprived?

Their body stays alive but their brain has lived out its lifespan,

Every day is a new day for them as if their life just began.

Love, care, and patience will be the daily ingredients,

While we make efforts to slow down the degeneration,

How do we imprint ourselves in their imagination,

To sweeten their otherwise mundane existence?

And, when do we say goodbye to such loved ones? And how?

Without causing anxiety; and distress, we cannot allow.

How and when do we accept this loss,

A loss where we cannot ever say adios?

We can’t say it when they are even a little aware,

And once the threshold is crossed, they could barely care.

When finally, their last breath is released,

Their physical form rests in peace,

Hadn’t we lost them already?

Was this not the inevitable eventuality?

Death would bring closure to the end of their being,

The pain of never saying goodbye will forever sting!

The Orange Jhoomkas | Anushka Saha

THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.

As I sat on the decaying windowsill,

I could feel my jhoomkas swaying in the gentle breeze.

Red and Gold clashing against each other,

The conflict that forever lives.

The gentle sound forgotten trinkets make as they clink against each other.

Never fails to remind me of how gentle your voice could be.

Funny how the harshest atrocities creep in softer than the breeze,

And take more than the roughest storms ever will.

This feeling of gentle devastation,

Manages to creep in unnoticed on most winter evenings.

It’s made its home in the hollows of my bones.

And every time I dare to look down,

At the rotting flesh that threatens to shroud my battered hips,

I remember the taste of your hatred,

Clashing against my own.

As the glass above me caves,

Sprinkling down like snow,

The kind that could bury you faster than your regrets.

I remember you limping into our room.

Holding onto your Rosewood cane,

Softly trembling under the weight of war ravaged years.

Sandals falling apart as they clank against the dungeon floors.

I learnt early on,

Fireplaces don’t help with years of emotional baggage.

Sadness that’s as cold as ice can never be destroyed, only experienced.

It finds a way to thrive in the darkest crevices of your soul.

Until your heart, in itself is rendered numb. 

And by the time you realise it, 

You’re suddenly shackled to the floor.

Desperately beating your fists against your chest,

Hoping it will revive itself.

And the moment has passed,

I’m helpless again.

The mind numbing darkness

Has made its home in the depths of my scarred and fragile chest.

So I cry a little bit louder,

Hoping my tears are melted glaciers,

Built from the sadness that shapes me.

Maybe somebody will hear me this time.

I startle at how quickly they fade,

Ss soon you walk into the room.

Much like what’s left of my resolve. 

 I notice the earthen mug of warm chai grasped in your shivering hand.

The generous sprinkle of saffron reminds me of glowing embers.

Much like the ones trapped helplessly

Within the confines of the bones you’ve bruised.

When I rest my head against your barely beating heart,

I can hear them desperately throb

Against the bars you’ve fashioned with such care.

Wailing to the tune of a lament only funeral pyres know.

When you finally let them escape,

I’m left with nothing, but new scars.

They find fragile homes against my burnt flesh.

It’s too late to heal wounds that have started to rot.

Buried under years of neglect.

Aching to be found,

In a world that’s blind to the tears of the frightened,

And waiting on the fancies of the feared.

My skin can’t take the brunt anymore,

So I pick it off and tuck it away in secret drawers.

I will go back someday,

Plant what’s left of my suffering in the ground

As a gift to the dead.

But for now, I’ll smile and stare into the grey that your eyes are.

Melancholy etched so beautifully in the depths of your irises.

Funny how much of a storm brews inside of you.

And you use me as a shield

Against the very destruction you house.

Smoke and mirrors,

Smiles and tears,

Bridges built on fear, 

Pain and passing years.

When you weren’t carrying muddy kullads of chai,

You carried vehemence. 

The kind that used to brim behind your father’s restraint.

The kind his hands shaped on harmless Autumn evenings.

As you pull me closer,

The blanket barely covers the scars

That have now found a loving home

On my naked Defenceless body. 

Nothing could possibly hold the both of us together,

Not even fraying ropes disguised as Hope.

You can cover up the violence with generous amounts of eyeshadow,

But it never truly leaves.

It creates a home

Under the rainbows you paint your guilt with.

Put on rose tinted glasses

And you’ll see the world as a shattered kaleidoscope. 

Colours help cover the pain,

But nothing hides for too long in a world that devours secrets.

Maybe that’s why your grey eyes are home to me.

The home I didn’t want, but was handed.

As I reluctantly rest my head on your shoulder,

I hear my stomach drop,

Never to return to a place where butterflies exist.

I can feel it

Slowly crawling its way down to the carefully dug out graves.

The cacophony of their screams is deafening,

I know the secrets they hide

And they know the secrets I hid.

A relationship stronger than anything we could ever hope to create.

You see

Dry deserts and enchanted forests

Only hold pits crawling with silver scaled snakes.

Slit silver tongues that will swallow you whole.

Until there’s nothing left,

For anyone else to feed on.

Snap

You gently bite my neck,

Slowly feeding on my inhibitions.

As I bleed out,

You refuse to acknowledge the Vermillion flowing down my skin.  

Let alone my forehead.

I smirk to myself and wipe away these stray tears.

They roll across my cheekbones and down to the ground.

Its almost as murky as the troubled waters my eyes are known to talk about.

A simple offering of peace 

Silence 

They can hear me sniffling,

Cackling with their eyes rolled back.

Smiling as they feed off of my misery.

I can hear them scratching away

At the lids of those handcrafted coffins.

The last nail is about to come undone.

Tick tock tick

I can hear the clock ticking,

With every silent tick, your nails dig deeper into my skin.

You always have managed to leave a mark.

I lie to myself everyday

Huddling closer to you

Telling myself

The one’s before you are responsible

For these bleeding scars painted on my thighs.

Crack

I wake up and blink a few times,

Almost gave into that haze again. 

I see a bluebird walking along a fragile branch

Unaware of the deafening cackles.

Unaware of the death it passes in its wake.

Snap

The bough breaks.

I miss you.

On warm summer evenings, I miss you. 

I miss your touch

The way your arms resembled sunshine and hailstorms.

I miss the chaos you brought with you.

My therapist says it’s because

I was taught to fall in love with doors that were slammed shut.

Men that found a home in your heart

But made sure to leave no room for you.

Scars that were hastily hidden behind torn Amber dupattas.

I miss you. 

I reach for the jhoomkas you bought me, 

I find myself running bruised fingers along the threads

The ones that barely keep my sanity in place.

This is all I have left of you,

This is all anyone has left of you.

I tried to warn you,

Instead you chose to harm

What you couldn’t understand.

I’ll never forget the feeling of your fist against my chest.

I caved.

I fell.

I bruised.

I hurt.

I rose.

Ding dong 

I hate how obnoxiously loud my doorbell is.

I wonder who’s here.

I wonder how long it will be

Before we’re nothing but bare broken bodies

Intertwined together.

Ding dong

I jump off the windowsill this time,

Nails sliding against the gentle Black. 

Just another scratch and you can see the skin I plaster to my wall.

I always go back to the ones that destroyed me.

As I open the door,

I see him standing.

Hiding behind the agonising innocence

His smile betrays

To the flocks of grievers that surround him.

Green eyes, warm hands and the strong scent of rain.

Why must he bring nostalgia and the taste of a lost childhood in his wake.

I smile up at him.

Making sure to nibble ever so gently,

On my cracked and broken lips.

The taste of metal,

The smell of broken sea shells

And the oceans they imprison.

I’ll have to make a sapphire coffin,

Tinged with Indigo - the colour of desperation.

After all

What else could do justice to those eyes

And the lust they barely conceal.

I hold him by the head and place my lips on his neck,

I feel him sigh.

His hands on my back.

Life always feels best, minutes before death arrives in all her glory.

You see

Regret isn’t something my mother taught me to feel.

She taught me how to hurt and never to heal.

Regret comes with wishing for change,

But what do you do when you’re too numb to wish for anything?

But perhaps, a few more eyelashes?

Hoping they fly away with the snow.

The kind that shrouds graveyards

And sits with trees adorned by the dead.

Now, the candles have been blown out

And all my eyelids are bare.

But mercy? I can’t find her anywhere.

She held my hand

Taught me how to land punches that would take his breath away.

“Disable a man before you fall and break yourself in the attempt to love him”

She whispers as the alcoholic who crossed her

Dies at the mercy of a scorned woman

And her torn dupatta.

Just like you held onto your mother’s despair

I hold onto her anger.

I am my mother’s daughter,

Fragile and armed.

He’s screaming now,

His hands holding onto my waist,

Hips trembling as he speaks my name.

I can feel him quiver,

So I hold onto his neck

And slide just a little bit further,

Letting him take one last bite.

He’s holding onto my breasts, too afraid to let go.

I let him kiss me

And all the inhibitions I keep hidden beneath my skin.

My hands in his hair,

His lips on my skin,

I find myself sighing, letting go of decades of pain.

Curving my lips desperately,

Trying to moan his name.

Too afraid to let go of the storm he conjures in my chest.

Every time he kisses my belly button,

Something inside me begs to be set free.

It feels carnal.

Am I the monster or am I just in pain? 

I kiss him before he can breathe,

Can’t have him giving away any of my secrets.

As I find myself arching my back,

I think of breaking his.

As I drip all over his trembling ribs,

I steal a glance at the bleeding ground.

I can hear their desperate screams,

They know it’s time.

As his breath hitches and his eyes roll back,

I smile and shake my head at the warmth between my legs.

They never manage to arrive.

After all,

It would be a mistake to let any of them in. 

Thump.

As I climb off of him, my mind races to that night.

Jhoomkas dangling defiantly,

Swaying around violently,

Indicative of the storms,

I have known and conjured my entire life.

As I grip the shovel, I whisper under my breath 

“I’ll miss you.”

But what can I do?

I am my mother’s daughter,

And she taught me how to make the most beautiful coffins.

So I made one for her,

And I make one for any man that dares to touch me.

On summer nights and warm evenings,

I sit on my patio.

Sipping on the blood of men that dared to wrong me.

I miss you,

Sunshine and hurricanes, they coexist 

So do the living and the dead.