chaiNboli

 You ask me what I had for dinner,  but I have nothing to say.  So I smile and talk about this book  I recently read.  Your voice is soft as a bird's song and warm as a cup of tea. You wish me luck and tell me I matter,  calling me your best friend.  You are a face less fish  looking at me from the bottom while I cry my pretty tears in pain. I don't tell you  How sleeping pills float on my tongue,  How I am painting my fences,  How I gifted myself grape coloured bruises on my birthday,  How I burned my throat swallowing a poem I wanted to write, How the baby blue carpet in my aunts house drained in red,  How broad is the grey sky, How cruel is the summer for a hummingbird without wings, How I finished an epitaph for personal use,  How the pink kisses turned to beautiful lies,  How my delicate parts quake in the wind, How colour blind am turning day by day. Instead I say am busy and go, a honey drenched cake ignor...

 Brother Do you remember the day I burned my poems to keep your feet warm? The man whom we mistook as our father smiled at us and his yellow hands lifted the hem of our mother's skirt her half sung prayers withering to ugly kisses quenching his tobacco fatigue. We waited outside playing games and licking the lollipops until our tongues changed into red,  weaving death beds for ourselves.  We had August hidden in our throats, the fifteenth day shining in golden.  We saw our names in the blue prints of new guns while we searched for bread in the diamond pockets of the man's khaki pants.  We heard bullets singing ragas and covered our ears with Kashmiri shawls.  Still we couldn't erase the ghosts dancing kathak, their anklets made of teeth of forgotten children burned in streets.  As the day entered into its black coffin, we pressed our tongue to the cold metal and looked up to see our grand mother's breath moving through the chimney. We collected tooth p...

 I wear left over love in my wrists and when ever a guy smiles at me,  I look at it reminding myself of its weight dragging me to the bathroom floor with  over flowing bath tub mingling with bitter tears. I hold colours in my cornea afraid about filling my pockets with laughter of the child in the park, running. I write haikus in dirty linen with cheap markers. I dry my socks in the sun, smelling of peaches . The girl next door sings a song for me on my birthday and it's suffocating grip makes my bones to stay heavy. Take a deep breath,  I scold myself while thinking why both  love and blood are tinted in same shades of crimson. There is a bag of sins no one can see in my shoulders which are moisturised with apricot cream, filling my collarbones and hiding my lucky mole.  Nails digged in old floral bed sheets while a quill of blade draws new patterns in skin.  A wasp whispering about it's travel to the next city where he kisses his love.  Alice pl...

 The white lillies in my lungs  aren't the ones that tries to stop my breath,   I know better. The spot under the trees are vacant  without lovers to hold each other's hands because it's night. White angels with pills in their hands walk through the corridors smiling , and I stay under the blankets,  a fruit scooped out,  hollow without it's sweet flesh.  At night the guests come in a line,  smiling and crying  preparing their eulogy.  There is a mermaid with broken tail  swimming in a glass of water. The smell of early summer  I won't be able to hold. The love stained first kiss in the wooden memory box.  The "he" shaped wound  pressed in moonlight cobblestones.  The dramatic post cards from coastal town of Spain  I never visited. The cherry blossoms dipped in the morning tea  . Tiny stars spilling  from the tongue of  an  internet friend whom I never met. Perfect easter eggs gifted...

 Every breath I take is a mutiny , a revolution. The goddess and I have  the same blood in us,  She is adored and  I am told that am impure. Women like me die everyday  but then wears our shed skins  in the next morning  listening to the quarrelling  of  mustard seeds bathing in hot oil. Strawberry moons hide  behind silver clouds while  women like me are eaten by drunk penises. Panting they leave to  the other side of the bed  and dream about salary hikes.  Women like me then bleed  in thousand scarlet shades  and pens down grief  in the words we know,  knowing no one reads it  nor understands.  Fear taste like black coffee  we take in the office,  and plays around us  like a child chasing  shadows of evening. We feed ourselves  with little salted lies  packed in yellow pouches  and brushes our teeth  to shine bright in made up smiles. There is an ...

 These days  I forget the names of books  I noted in literature class  in hope to read on sunday afternoons. I wish to climb mountains  of another continent, panting in the golden sun. The kitchen is lonely. Silence sleeps there. There is pain and I hear the chorus of demons  while I fight the ghosts. Dirty boots clutching my lungs,  my breath  a poor prisoner. People move around me their eyes so big like cartoons,  sniffibg like dogs asking me  "how are you ". When I pull my clothes out of hangers  In my head  I count the pills I swallowed. One. Two. ..... Thirteen.  The unlucky number they say.  But if I could I will  tattoo  it in my back with acid. The boy chanted he loved me  and then left me  I should thrust a book  on his throat  So that his words  with dripping honey  won't kill anyone else. Still I think about him,  a parasite in neon red. It hurts. I feel cold. Am...

 February hurries away  like a house wife who walks fast   to home to make  her husband's favorite dinner . I am vomiting out all the love poems,  my heart swell in the chest  crashing the breath. My hair black as the tadpoles ,  dripping down the shoulders My fear, in its blue dress  running deep in my veins. Heavy signs and red face lined with tears, Whispers of ghosts staying in the head. I write his name in cursive letters,  like a fly buzzing around  rotten pineapple memories. Like the melting butter in a pan. Mother tells me not to go out without her. Are you afraid I will return in a red casket?  Will that break your heart?  I have stabbed myself so many times  in front of you, but that's my magic_ I don't let you see my scars  telling am not a baby  while collecting metaphors  with hands pale as white peonies.  If there is a God, he is having a good laugh at me.  Give me a break. This ...

 My clumsy words fill in my egg like soul, like a ship trapped in a bottle which can't sail across oceans. They speak about you all the time in whispers because they are afraid I will explode other wise. A tiny crown coffin is waiting, the grey angel had said, sitting on my bed without my permission, her legs crossed.  I told her to come on a date in a tangerine field so that I can lie under pink wings of an umbrella. My future leaves me a voicemail which I never  are to open because am talking to dead children practicing paper craft. Abandoned poems stir like a soup in the pot weaving sticky wisps in a stranger hand. I am oblivious of cryptocurrency crystals,  Rains of Italy and Russian invasion of Ukraine. I am oblivious of everything and anything, including you.  I gave God another apple promise, just to break it into two thousand pieces and now am at hell,  a fabulous satire laughing at a unicorn who forgot rain bows.

 We are picking up sea shells talking of clay bangles chuckling in my hands. You confirm your flight ticket and I say am happy for you. You ask me what I will remember of you and I don't know what to say because there are a million words I want to say.  May be I will sell my kidney to buy ink and then will write about how you gifted me the sun. But  I am a Persian carpet in the middle of an Indian street, A Bohemian soul in a Arabic desert, A blackberry in a French dessert. As children believing in Harry's magic. A romantic lover of Gatsby. A Christmas night wearing fairy lights. A lost anklet of queen Cleopatra in Seus canal. A delicate golden sunflower. Dancing girl of Indus valley. Forgotten nawab who cried over death of his favorite horse.  Blood under nail extensions.  Ariel raising her voice against Prospero. Or in other words am n o t h i n g. And that's why you are leaving.

 Someone stole last two days of February and we act like that's OK.  It really is okay  that I don't have to try to be happy for two more days this year. That sand castles are going to fall anyways. We are in a loop and I can't even move. Dimly lit rooms hold me to their bosoms , not my mother.  I know how to chew my throat and bleed in silence. Love has forgotten me, still I reach it's home, am uninvited guest.  Yesterday I cut my hair and now I don't see the point. Tell me whether my ex was a criminal or a magician. Gift me channel thirteen on Christmas and expect nothing.  My father says he is sorry for himself because he is 'my' father. The new house has five bedrooms and I chose the one at corner. The scar on the forehead of the child I met at grocery is in shape of a crescent. The librarian smokes and coughs, tells it is to slot his guilt out.  There are invisible vultures forming a halo over my head. At dinner tables and family functions you cut...

 //You have your mother's eyes  but father's cruelty  You have your mother's lips  but father's tongue // Mother's collect heartaches in their eyes, Father's in their almariahs. And we curious children dig them up and make it ours, the little black treasures.  But we don't share them with each other because they are not soft as headphones. We keep everything to ourselves and dress in sapphires and laugh. We are drowning but won't hold each other's hands. While we kiss we swallow sweetness of strawberries, because fears are kept under our throats.  We hold on to little mercies like a brown eyed puppy, for the sake of being not looking insane.  At nights, I we want the bed sheets to warm us and not to tempt to strangle ourselves. We are magicians turning bloody palms sticking to wine glasses into manicured nails. We let lullabies made of flower crowns to take a are of bullets trying to escape our skulls. This is the photosynthesis we are a part of, pas...

 My mother's child dreams of Paris cafes and seagulls.  My  mother's child writes suicide notes, not love poems. My mother's child eats pancakes and drinks juice. My mother's child brushes her teeth twice a day but still has lies worth pricking in her mouth. My mother's child selects long sleeved shirts on shopping, desperately trying to hide red lines.  My mother's child fails to pronounce her name in a crowded room, her sweat watering yellow sunflowers. My mother's child draws doodles in the back of her notebooks.  My mother's child goes to library everyday because it is her escape. My mother's child trash talk to an instagram friend to find solace, failing. My mother's child kissed a dog and turned herself into a bitch. My mother's child tend caterpillars in a Banarasi saree, daring of butterflies.  My mother's child ignores men reaching to touch her small breasts.  My mother's child knows grief is shaped as shadows in a dim light....

Apparently our  respective Gods hate each other and as devoted followed we should do that too. May be we are succeeding in that because we don't talk of books anymore.  You don't tint my rosy cheeks in blue with your kisses. And I am feeling every crack of your absence in my breath and trying to hold my pieces together. I am homesick of another world where my mother is reading me the stories of princesses who are not waiting for stranger princes to save them.  Where good girls never keep quiet. Where there are grocery stores with strawberry ice creams. Where there are no grandma's to gift you a comprehensive guide to be a good house wife. Where V-necked short dresses fly without fear.  Where there are no blank notebooks with paranoid metaphors. Where there is no one to move us in two lines distinguished by vagina and penis. Where I don't have to hide my artist's razor. Where there are nights we taste blooming lips. Where we dress in roses and sing Hozier at the top ...

 Fun fact : I still exist.  Thanks to the pure prayers my mother chanted, folding her palms adorned with iron deficient nails. Thanks to the gods who were lazy to get out of their queen sized beds to receive my soul.  Thanks to the books I left unread in hope of another sleepless night. Thanks to the tourist who found me swimming in a bath tub with my hands red of blood. Thanks to the tears the boy who said he hate me shared our of "love". Thanks to my best friend who was sane enough to call an ambulance.  Thanks to the driver who transformed the vehicle to an aeroplane in road. Thanks to the nurse who ran away screaming for a doctor. Thanks to the stethoscope who received a gold medal on graduation.  Thanks to everything and anything that failed me, I owe you a lot.

 I leave the house every wednesday to walk in the park where lillies wither away under the spell of dry winds.  Sometimes I dare to taste a new chocolate whose cover will be later glued in my journal. Like a heiress counting her money I wait for the clock to yawn at two pm so that I can meet my therapist.  The therapist tells me I can be whatever I want and smile at me with her eyes far away.  Do you know what I want to be?  A new language in which poets will only write love songs. One among the flock of seagulls chanting an unknown mantra.  A lock smith dead bolting hearts that search for love.  An ambulance siren wailing on its every way. A surrealist painting dissected by critics. A pista cake worth waiting in a long line. A queen in a far away island guillotining the king not his concubines.  A teacher explaining thermodynamics. A detached string of song in an orchestra. The cologne wrapping itself on his cells. The final act of Houdini. A tic...

 Once in a while I look at the sky and ask my heart how much i miss you. Haemoglobin thoughts wander aimlessly through me asking my flesh to burn in the chemical reaction of turning lovers to haters.  The euphemisms of heart break written in yellow papers of my notebook instead of bullet holes in the border.  The cities rise and fall, the battlefields in red hues, ghost hunters wandering looking at graffitis. Holy waters in our land turn red with the helplessness of bleeding women, with broken flutes of consent. Sun leaves for a vacation and moon comes as an assigned teacher, standing still and silent afraid of cicada songs. Every mother recites a poem for their dead sons and every father for their ancestors,in between a one minute silence of remembrance. The world is turning black in a broken kaleidoscope but still I preach the shadows of my pain, oblivious of roaring fire in sacrificial pyres.  I could never express me beyond pale metaphors and chipped similies....

 Tongues practicing Queens English to silence the screams of minority migratory birds voted to build statues of ancestors with fair skins   The king stripped a girl named democracy, who was the daughter of a beggar, her flat chest talked of children waiting to be fed. Little deities who hate each other told their followers to kill each other and not to forget to chant their names.  Men wearing white silk kurtas took their turns to rape a five year old named justice who was standing in a garden. There are houses that turned into ashes, thanks to magic tricks we never knew before. Plastic smiles gifted famished children red coloured lollipops and took photos to post. Assemblies erase the blood of an old sparrow who chirped for Ahimsa because it's song is outdated. Spring in Sreenagar smells of hushed cries of mothers who lost their hazel eyed children. Dusky skins try hard to gate keeper the memories of 1945 without bias, but fail miserably.  Leaders lie to the wo...

 Every street light has at least one secret hidden in their little super nova, like the helpless cry of a vagina who went for a friend's graduation party. Every knife knows the depth of wounds people try to hide behind their tired laughs, clicking glasses of wine at a sea shore restaurant. Every woman give birth to fear and then to hope, dividing own cells in half with tenderness and pain. Every man call love as lust, it's name changed behind closed doors and cinema halls without letting the authorities know. Every child thought of leaving their home once in a while, for they are not allowed to be themselves among expectations. Every skin has a purple hue painted in like "Irises" ,that they are afraid of displaying in muesuems.  Every mother tongue has forgotten words in the flow of time,that are so smooth as pebbles. Every city has an unknown area where poems bloom under lilac skies. Every war has stories of star crossed lovers who were not ready to welcome death. Ev...

 Tea cups rattle with a heavy sigh when finally the sun calls it a day. I hold a pencil between my fingers but my brain is thinking of paper birds flying through my favorite city. They are romanticizing fallen stars and angels, without knowing how much it hurts to fall. Time moves between them as the marbles of a five year old, in dimensions we are yet to name. They speak in accents that are not theirs and when someone asks their names sing some heavy, sophisticated word.  They quote Fitzgerald inside a bar, holding hands (wings) of a one night stand. They take wrong turns in every street in hope that they will never reach home. They wish to get a decent picture of them in the back ground of an unnamed monument so that they can upload it with a funny caption.  They shed turquoise tears while quivering a little after reading Hardy. They murmer in their sleeps about the girl who talked back, quenching their fragile male ego.  They cover the old age with henna, laughing...

 To whom it may concern,  I am not afraid to die. Am afraid of the silences am asked to fill. Of storms am supposed to ignore. Of days running past my eyes.  Of happy poems I can't write. Of rainbows disappearing in a blink of eye. Of sadness accumulated like dirt under my fingernails. Of bruises in lips out of love (?). Of  raspberry stains  spread in my favorite dress.  Of fatigued smiles of father before going to bed.  Of unbalanced toes in a soapy bathroom floor. Of dust settled French films in the shelf.  Of napkins scrawled with pieces of poetry. Of crescent moon hidden in old books. Of  angry volcanoes prickling under the skin. Of unwritten papers that will be recycled. Of Hannah Baker chuckling inside me. Of frosted ovum eggs I won't left behind. Of cliche love story I fell into. Of thermocol plates we feed ourselves with burgers made of our own meat.  Of tomato sauce in colour of blood, tempting to cut myself.  Of borrowed ...

 Gorgeous gorgeous girls cry themselves to sleep every night and regrets Gorgeous gorgeous girls smile at strangers with crooked teeth Gorgeous gorgeous girls let a boy live rent free in their thoughts with pain Gorgeous gorgeous girls have no hearts but a muscle contracting in pain Gorgeous gorgeous girls let spiders crawl in their lungs talking about anatomy of loss  Gorgeous gorgeous girls  Gorgeous gorgeous girls download Taylor Swift songs and listen to  the playlist all night Gorgeous gorgeous girls have slippery lips of strawberry lip gloss shining in street lights. Gorgeous gorgeous girls love tangerine skies with pink hues in sides, they keep in their purses  Gorgeous gorgeous girls make fun of bewildered past and unpredictable future for who knows whether there will be a tomorrow ? Gorgeous gorgeous girls crush pearl earrings to decorate birthday cards for best friend  Gorgeous gorgeous girls let kitties kiss their ankles and puppies sing full son...

 The world still asleep in its kitty night dress, afraid of vertical bars of a jail and the black tears of its residents.  There is wrath stuck in the molars of a stranger who sleeps outside the bakery where pastries smile in pink and white.  The cold wind walking through the balcony listening to mother's magic trick of holding her pain in ceramic jars. The birds wake up exactly at the time they are supposed to be,   their alarms hidden in their nests, ready to sing "rise and shine". Tattered journals cough under unmade beds thinking of road trips that never happened and dreams that were failed long years ago. Comfortable silence lingering in the air while a library_whore makes love to a less famous author of eighteenth century. The softness of sun slowly spreading it's hand on earth's collarbone, a lover's touch of beating heart. And we talk of love and loss in vernacular terms passing our favorite books to each other because we are mere illiterates who read,...

 In the monochoramatic grey of the room,  an orchestra pit where you hide unsung songs, where sun is not allowed to enter without a fake id, January rushes fast like a local train to Kolkata defying the Newtonian laws.  You pretend everything is going to be fine, even if your days are empty like a beggar's bowl and the crack under the slippers when you walk in the street. You peel of the water color eyes moving through your skin, listening to a compassionate cough from the old radio tending the rotten plants on your balcony.          Your tongue tastes of bile and you stitch fresh notes in your mouth and that is why you don't smile often, but people never understand. The water in your favorite cup pretends to be dressed in aqua blue, to give you some solace in the screams of sweaty noon.  You wish to wipe the dusty tinted windows once in a while but you fall apart, your limbs so persistent and adamptant not to move.  You bath in you...

 My summer fell in love with the equinox reciting haikus as their mouth forgets of adieu that is inevitable.  Do you know every war is remembered, every blood shed is written down and every heart break is mocked?  Do you know red has many shades from my menstrual blood to soft blush of your cheeks? There is a city in my palm,pale like a widow's tears where we met on an evening  I let dust settle in it  so that it will be easy to ignore  There is a song in my head I studied thoroughly like a history date to be remembered  I let the storm to steal it so that it will be easy to forget . Lamenting hugs in the envelope fragile to carry my real emotions,  a red stamp reading a place no longer exists with a smirk.  Loss of a lover's lap unique as a finger print of our own where revolutions and mutinies slept. The Radcliff line on the wrists where we played t poppy seeds. Stolen snippets from Dickinson to adorn the yellowing wallpaper of a hostel roo...

 We soak almonds in honey  You ask me the name of God I pray to  And I tell you fifty thousand names of him while your finger tips search for mummified hope in our cellar.  The cross word puzzle in our sofa we forgot to complete looks at us with half opened eyes  I ask about your God and you tell me something about the black mole on my right elbow.  You look at my diary and see ink blots in red and blue, a Rochester test  I forget my sanity and kiss you in mouth tasting all the dandelions and stars  We put our fears in bed singing a lullaby in hushed tones, storing each memory in our lungs so that we can breathe after we are no longer together.  This is when you tell me how our God's are different just like the colour of our eyes  And I look at the cracks of ceiling when you leave through the door you once entered with that stupid smile  The crushed cherries glow in sympathy while I still dream of you taking your abode in my umbrell...

 The library is a clock tower where time stands still where I hide between the pages of a dusty book of nineeth century just to watch my favorite person whirl in the words. The library is a sky of broken wings where the lover of the man who killed himself sit in hope of a miracle. The library is a dandelion seed the mother of the guy, who is in the jail for cooking his favorite food,  wishes to plant in the barren streets of our city. The library is a sunflower petal red with the blood of the revolution of a girl who dared to walk in the night.  The library is a bearer of coffin of the dreams of a teenager who is going to get married day after tomorrow. The library is a the shivering wrist of a boy who was moulded incorrectly in masculine soil because he loves jhumkas not cricket bats.  The library is a stranger for the father who is playing a sadistic song over uncooked rice. The library is a hidden code written about Romeo and Juliet to teach all the lovers of thei...

 People I know leave their prayers under the carpets before leaving the courtyard for town. People I know kiss each others mouth behind closed doors not out of love but as a habit  People I know bargain to the vegetable vendor for a one rupee note because they are numismatics of future. People I know leave robs of their dreams for their children to wear. People I know are afraid to hold hands in public so they hide it in their pockets and duppattas People I know slowly forget how to fly paper aeroplanes and make paper boats on rainy days.             People I know cry over broken tea cups but never for broken hearts  People I know decorate polaroids of their ancestors and keep it in cellar like pickled lemons People I know write about the role of Shakespeare in modernism but ignore love letters on cold nights  People I know tell beauty tips to their daughters to erase their brown skin but never asks their sons to stop catcalling...

 My name means "star of the sea" in a language we both don't know, while your's mean "the God of love" in a language we both know  There are dangling flames between us which burn memories effectively like a cursed angel There is the numbness of the teeth I left on a dentist's office because of my swallowing gums  There is muteness of a girl with no tongue we read about in Atwood's Booker prize winning novel  There is the brightness of sunbathed skin in our bed , your curls perfect and soft  There is a song by our hallucinated neighbors about the land he had to left behind  There are passive metaphors of love under our feets, which we forgot to scrub away  There is a half burnt lungs of lullaby we moulded for a non existent future  There is cemented fear in our bones making no it hard to move closer  There are words we abandoned in the letters we put on the public dust bin There are colour blinded pills we used to swallow at three am to get so...

We both paint our sky in  different shades of blue  just like the way we paint pain_  Yours is in golden lines of red, bubble gum scented resurrection of a demised memory. Yours knitting stories out of a color box your father gifted you on your seventh birthday while your smile was still pure.  Yours with a touch of stained towel in the kitchen sink, so tattered that it should be forgotten  Yours about home sick pigeons and broken tooth, both you think of in silence  Yours in the light of the moon you stitched on the locket of your favorite shirt.  Yours in statics of the Bengal famine no one remembers now  Yours in the sweat of a nightmare which made your lungs search for air. Yours in cremated bargains to a vegetable vendor since words dumped you in the middle of the street.  Yours in the softness of a lilac flannel your first love gifted on Valentine's. Yours in the scent of an auspicious Eid night when you visited your friend . Yours in t...

 My country has  six main religions and  two hundred castes  She has two seventy mother tongues and  ten skin colours. She has twenty taste buds and fifty wardrobes.  My country has two billion perfumes in her vanity bag made of golden threads.  My country wears saffron saree  And is afraid of hijab sometimes.  My country walks in dirty lanes with crocodile tears and ask the missionaries to be silent. My country allows her children to believe in whatever they want until it is her choice. She sings lullabies with bullets while asking her daughters to stay inside on new year's eve. She asks them to stay silent, iron the shirts and  wash the dirty dishes. She tells her sons that they are not supposed to cry My country defines people and love in two genders  My country ignores the farmers dying in roads Her Dal tastes of blood , Her art galleries full of what she wants to believe as her story  My country speaks of equality but fail...

 The tear we moulded into a pearl before anyone saw that The words we never told anyone else since they found it foreign . The Poppins flavored smile amazon won't be able to sell  Pieces of stress pineapple from a road side store  Cassettes of 90s Bollywood song with your name plastered on them  . . Once you receive the package don't forget to sign that "received"

 Some days I love myself so much that I let me cry in unexpected places like a movie theater without blaming for being a total disappointment for every person around me  Some days I love myself so much that I eat two chocolate muffins and lick my fingers with a smile on my face.  Some days I love myself so much that I let the fear inside me bask in the afternoon sun with a yawn camouflaging a cry.  Some days I love myself so much that I lie in the red oxide floors of my grandmother's house listening to "Abhi na jao". Some days I love myself so much that I sprinkled lemon juice over my favorite dishes not on my   vermilion skin  Some days I love myself so much that I let the door of my room open and eat something my mother cooked  Some days I love myself so much that I sleep listening to Harry Styles and forget about the chemical aesthetics in my drawer. Some days I love myself so much that I forgive the boy who lied to me that he loves me with suc...

  If I will ever write a good poem I will print it in bold letters and press a thousand flowers in between the words so that I can gift it to every person I know and I don't. To the Persian carpet the lady next door sit grieving upon her kitchen garden in Kashmir,  To the internet friend from Kolkata who talks of books and Rabindra sangeet.  To the boy who kissed me long in a ruthlessly cold night before breaking my heart.  To the muddy footprints my grandmother left in my floor while she got me a atramgiwala chai. To the murals that hide the darkness of my best friend's heart with smiles The void spaces between me and my mother while she wish me "happy birthday " To the unspoken anger my brother hide when I break down in front of him To the greetings of a favorite professor who promised to remember me in her prayers  To the vintage smile of that friend who send me a Christmas card in the third week of January  To the B 3 foundation my aunt uses to erase th...

The child in me dreams of becoming a writer  But she doesn't know enough words  The child in me is afraid of ghosts but once she will understand people are terrific than ghosts.  The child in me has nursery rhymes in her tongue not three sleeping pills  The child in me is in awe with her new glasses but doesn't know that they will hide her tears too.  The child in me writes letters to God hoping that being a good girl counts  The child in me sits in side seat of a bus wondering of running trees, not crying about the last hear break.  The child in me isn't afraid to hold hands with the boy next door because she knows only boys, not what men are. The child in me climbs trees because her mother is in kitchen instead of reminding her that she is a girl.  The child in me collects shells and starfishes and counts not purple bruises in her hands. The child in me eats salted gooseberries and smiles wide because she knew how to smile.  The child in me...

 If I cut the calender in cubes and blend it with my smile along with 100g sugar, will it remind you of our first winter?  If I boil my tears with pieces of my pen and poems will it taste like the leaves of the fall?  Dilute my blood with water and put three ice cubes in my skin,  make me so numb and cold and then act as a bewitching butcher cutting me into three thousand pieces  so that you can preserve it like  A rasin flower in wall Burn me and put my ashes in the terracotta urn,  a blue flower painted in its lid  And while you paint your new home mix it in its  emerald erald green walls.  We could never be sixteen and seventeen again so miss me when you listen to old man's piano.  Now that we have christened love as pain it doesn't matter what I think . Now that there is no one to watch I don't need to act good.  We will count the Sand castles but in different places with different clocks.  You won't carry me with you...

If I could taste all those cheesecakes  you baked and burned  I would smile at the sun and moon  and tell them at last a definition of kiss.  I have tasted a hundred different mouths  so I thought that I know what love really is.  But the violet bruises in your pink hands  tell me that am wrong.  You stand near a coffee shop,  a preloved copy of Bukoswki in your bag  and I swear I think of an angel  in ballet slippers in black stage of heaven.  When I see you in his arms  my blood became pale,  paler than a glass of water and  my heart a dried blueberry.  I don't know when to shut up  so I talk Until you ask me who am I.  What should I remind you, I ask myself.  I say nothing and flee. Because that is what am good at.  That was last summer,  a withered year away.  I am exhausted of telling how I feel  so I write.  I wear a funeral dress always  but they call it pa...

 They think they are doing  me a favor by colouring  all my walls in shades of pink and expect a thank you But girls like me won't do that  Girls like me carry the weight of anger inside and answer every question with silence  Girls like me read books and dream of Paris listening to Achilles come down  Girls like me paint their nails in black and ignore dirty laundry in the corner  Girls like me wish for mother's good night kisses and a family picnic but is afraid of a family dinner  Girls like me bleed everyday but no one sees that because we hide it with powder coloured smiles  Girls like me want to die all at once not to die little by little day by day . Girls like me weep behind doors and  that's our weekend plans. Girls like me try a lot but fails  and turn deaf ears when people wish luck  because we don't have luck.  Girls like me paint butterfly nests in beewax yellow and let wild sonnets grow out of hair Girls like...

I won't dare to utter a word about  art or you  both being an intricate puzzle,  always a mystery worth trying but am lazy.  So when you said that you will give me two wings if I give you my hands in return I thought nothing but of your magic . A fair trade,  A sullen memory, A crooked pearl,  A colorful dream catcher.  You taught me how to fly  But never bothered to say  that there is no sky.  I am left with two thermocol pieces  you painted in brown to match my skin and a glitter of violet spread in the sides. What should I do?  Why should I ? Your silence a plastic doll I kept next to my bed,  It's eyes so blue and lips so red  but so cold that  it reminds of our first winter together.  Your smile a wild peach Fresh, soft, honey colored  I keep hidden in my China plate basking in the morning sun. We are now sixty five cities away  And you are a mute idol to whom I dare to ask  to give my ha...