chaiNboli

 Season after season I sit on my cot, frowning at my wasteful life  a lazy melancholy in my brown eyes,   so careful that I hold a scythe to kill the devil who tries to rob me. I am a pack of bones wrapped in a brown paper designed with hair follicles, waiting to be placed in a coffin , a useless gift for him_  him with a capital H. Under the moon I stand  studying the delicate pattern of Van Gogh's ear my grief weighting me like the wings of Icarus. For me grief is a habit passed down like a folk song into my hungry palms to be uncoiled in silence of a bleeding sunset . It is the green mollusca growing in my spine kissing my neural system, cancerous spreading to every corner of my onion thin cells. It is the misty air trapped inside spongy lungs of mine like an illicit child in a lover's womb. It is an unsung lullaby to my favorite cat mutilated by some stranger in the street,  it's head boiled in my luke warm love. It is a poison mushroom I feed myse...

 I am some one loves too hard that my best friend calls me "little dumb redhood" but she doesn't know the air crushed inside my lungs is a privilege. I have fed my love to a certain bastard, and wiped his mouth with the sleeves of my favorite dress.  I have kept the dog collar he gifted under my pillow, neatly and digged the brown soil with a metal tooth to camouflage a bleeding womb. I have hidden my name under the flower pot, my ink spilled for a wild flower  it's leaves dark as night,  the golden thorns scooping raw flesh of my papaya heart. Blood blooming in my mouth, small crimson flowers while he turns all my golden chains to straw, a saddist magician. And when night comes you shred his skin cells, a white serpent with lollipop eyes, and become a mere man who puts his head in my ribs,  crushed and tattered with secrets I can't  tell you. Drawing circles on my hand his pangs on my cleavage while the last iota of resistance drowning in abyss of pain. He...

 Wearing a veil of amnesia my grandmother wakes every night from her rosewood cot and examines my throat,tells me not to utter a single word and places a sugar cube in my naive tongue.  Like a good daughter I smile and thank her and call her 'Nani' when she returns to a blue blurry silent zone and asks me who I am. I tell her am a profound cell, so small but with so much inside me. I am the burnt mole on mother's wrist an unlucky charm she hides under a leather strap of her favourite watch. I am the rolled tobacco resting on my father's bottom lip, soon to be ash without a proper burial. I am a broken crayon in my brothers school box melted,ignored and lost interest in. Iam my lover's old poetry, written, read and re read then locked in the bottom drawer of cupboard,forgotten. I am the adamptant breath inside an eighty year old's rugged lungs, dancing to an orchestra of denial.  Iam an old scarf picked from the streets,  much loved that washed, hung and ironed, ...

 Sadness tip toeing around my nights  in its black kefta,  hair embellished with red blood clips while I try to find solace in a dog eared book I stole from my dead grand mother's shelf. the sixth cigar in ten minutes it's ashes on my cleavage bright grey, merging effortlessly with my  skin. His creamy little face I pinned  in the west of my memory, aching,  my mouth tastes copper. Pain,an exotic jelly fish in the black it's unholy teeth piercing the third cell of  my cerebrum ,chopping the last ion of  his silk smooth voice.  the narrow street of hope owls singing "everything will be fine" moths blocking the way, I stand before Lethe.  in stillness I drown pebbles in my pocket  never intending to speak another word,  the bone of my tongue heavy with spit.  A cry blooms , rotten and helpless  but fails to move  as I put down a rolled carpet  inside my crushed wind pipe.  Hidden in the rosebush a white s...