FILTERED

 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 your own blood, wishing to be drowned and not to be saved, unfurling every desire into a funeral song 

You move your brush of acrylic through your nails in shades of coral, choking in the cigarette smoke of your breath.

Your skin rough like the bark of an oak tree in the park you never visited, and your violent spleen spread across your broken back bone .

The wind you put in the glass jar licks sea salt sprayed across your wounds and crawls under brown warm sheets.

Your saddnes trapped inside your veins like a pumpkin seed, with softness of a baked banana cake you carve in three dimensions in a parallel universe. 

The lillies you pour in the champagne glass celebrating the passing away of virginity under an unnamed bridge faking an orgasm for unknown reasons.

Your clothes smell of smoke and ash, because you are a burning home.

But does that matter?

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