chaiNboli

  Soul sisters, We are scribbling under someone’s dream With sunburnt teeth, just like silkworms In hope of being butterflies one day. But, we are unscrolled into a Silky silence ironed flat and kept in Pouches made of our tissues . // The sheep skins bleached, dyed and then put in the sun// We carry portable bombs in our Broken hearts and realize that There is no simple present, Only present continues tense. // Our presents are auctioned long before we are born// We make our tragedies into silly jokes And cry in the way our mothers Taught us to- silently. We tape knives into our palms and see angels melting into red coloured atoms under midnight sun. //Its Saturday night. Every saint is turning into a rapist// Our souls are so small to fit into a match box in the shirt pocket of satan or god. Every prayer our grandmothers made us chant Hang upside down in the dark, like little bats who lost their way on a school midnight trip. ...

  People like me have killed Ourselves enough with finger guns, that now we are not afraid To decorate our own graves. We are planets without rainbows, where sunsets are muted blue, moving in foreign rusty orbits. People like me tend dried mustard flowers   near fire because under the bandages our scars are still raw. Our happiness taste like egg white and when rage oozes between the pebbles in our throat we stay silent. People like me has minefields as our landmarks . so we have gifted our legs to clouds to walk through grasslands and cities. We mark our territory with Black coal pencils made from our burnt fingers. People like me are hopeless romantics adoring long lost lovers with payers that remain unanswered. We have our mouths numb with heartbreaks So how can we taste sweet kisses and love? People like me wrap the shoulders of butterflies in fur hoping to become toothless like them so that we can stop chewing grief. ...

  January is a child no one prays for, Who carries her grief Like a turtle shell. January is a cyanide tooth Where insects whim about their dirty handwriting in love letters. January is a dragon fly pouring hope into sewage So that poor can be saved from hunger. January is a near sighted god turning Memory foam into a Circle of sad bubbles that won’t break. January wears dusk in her skin Giving a second chance to All red skinned Satans.. January finds softness in hearts Of serial killers and waters daisy seeds planted there. January is a homeless melody In a poet’s dream, Not afraid to cross mine fields of blood marked territories. January is a daughter born With the wrong questions. A comet passing through The wrong sky. January is an introvert without the privilege of forgetting, spiking the drink with poison. January is a paper heart in shades of pink and blue, crumpled yet beautiful. January is a old woman waiting ...

My name is something  i left in w rong mouths. My songs are something that i gifted to wrong hands. With a mouth full of milk teeth i create new enemies  and new lovers who leave their shoe marks on my neck. Sadness is a wine, intoxicating and am a bread crumb soaked in it. May be it is the slave mark over the skin of every king in the castle. Summer peeks through doors to find me crying in a  different timezone and asks me  what words mean to me. i answer it is my religion, but i haven't found my god yet. December has flushed red cheeks and cold heart dancing to jingle bells. January pours hope into gutters so that poor can drink and die. i toss the coin to decide whether to hang or drown. but then am already drowning. but then am already hanging. i still carve for candies but my teeth are decayed. i still search for love, but my heart is broken. if you ask me who i am i will answer, am nothing-  but unnamed grief, because it is the truth (And darling, i will l...