chaiNboli

  I have loved him for twenty one days, staying carefully in the igloos of sanity, Ignoring small chaos blooming in my head with suffocating memories. On the twenty second day he takes me to a café, with a name I misspell always, A bramble rose growing on its walls, out of place yet beautiful. Silent waves between our hands, he looks at me with Kindness oozing from the burrow on the face, a tarnished smile. His heart is so white, whiter than the lace of my skirt, Just like a paper before a sad, heartbroken poem- I know. He thinks he can mend me, but holy fuck, he is a man He is just a man; he is just another man. I see the future grinning like a mouse when he kneels with a ring, And I want to cry, howl like a dog and say all the ugly truths. But am a Houdini, quick and clean who says yes, a slender smile on lips, Because this is how it works.

  At the end of doomed attempts of conversations, He showed me a photo, square and clean. He told me that he loves her, and they have A lot in common, like religion and music taste. This new girl is born in the same city as me, I am sure, because she too has the same birth mark in her face- sadness concealed with smile. That afternoon in my bathroom I got down on my knees and cried. Five days after that I tried to write Something like a poem, titled “to the man I loved” where I lied about him. I wrote he had stars in his tongue, flowers in fingers And an ocean in the left of his ribcage. I called him Adonis with sugar in veins. The more I wrote about him the more He stood outside them, staring in disbelief. In my sleep I cut him into two pieces, In my dreams he was still kissing me. I painted my long nails in black and the dog-eared notebooks with words and tears. I never uttered a word about the pain he gave, the sickness that poured whe...

  Mother, Let me hang my small pink mouth to your left breast, foolishly hungry. Let me stay unmoved in your fondles, hollow lap of magnificent disappointment. Let me have a place a place in the empty cave of your gut, mother, So that I can hide because its too loud here.   Crowded by the memories my brain is sweating All my fears dance under the pale kitchen light, An infamous yet grotesque opera. Verses pregnant with naked passion drawing Hypothesis in the crossroads, red and blue. The clammy sunshine henna on doorsteps, The soul of a dead sparrow seeping into my veins. I put my anger in refrigerator, careful, And my teeth in the washing machine “whiter, whiter” I chant. The sorrows are the tail of a lizard, Shed only to be grown, stronger and darker again. And happiness a crossword puzzle in neon letters, A sweet spoon of crystal sugar at the bottom of bleak coffee. In silence my tongue rolls into memorized prayers, I stand, a mannequin, stabbing her own raw...

He is my insane poem  in upper case,  a cry not a tear and  am his little red fish, caught ,claimed and ruined. This delicate asylum which  I say "home" (but not ) is just bricks I count. Inside the old oak wood chester a bouquet of half bloomed roses  with a card tucked telling " I love you" the words seem strange, a song from a smokers throat. You are claiming me  like a pawn, a fallen solider at its very  second movement in the black and white checks where death hides. All those poppie seeds  you planted in the pink soil  under my eyes are watered, nurtured that their roots now run in my veins and  some times through  an old, green fountain pen.  You quote Gulzar at 3 am and the cloud between us  slowly rises, above your ego and I fold myself into an odd piece of origami fitting in your palms. My kohl lined fears  draws colourless pictures on the red Kashmiri carpet, and I keep them silently  with the stories ...

 I am a rag doll made from a different fabric, who gifted myself  a knife wrapped in ribbon. I have daring poems in crumpled notebooks, my sorrows neatly pressed  in an iambic inside. I tuck them, the  bad seeds of   my stubborn insomnia: under my pillow case,  hidden from school room rulers. I eat my own heart everyday,  a fragile lady Prometheus, chained and cursed with  a thousand vultures around. Sadness is my birth mark, glowing in luminous red at three am sharp. There is a lump behind my left breast bone holding the very last drop of my courage. A corrupt lungs and  a fractured hyoid, and  crushed red petunias with their root in my veins. Am a child who want  a strong hand to hold, denied her favorite candy yet can't cry in public. Hidden in a green shell, my language is thin, my words not sharp  to kill or make you bleed. A braille of scars in my skin, my hands breaking  the delicate necks of  tiny wild fl...