NOTES FROM THERAPY

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 love

you with all my grief...)


if i say am an unwanted tenant

residing in my mother's womb, 

will you believe me?

if i braid crescent moons on your hair,

will you stay?

will you chant the prayers 

i have pasted on my ribcage?

Will you wake me up from

this fever dream and

teach me how to

forgive myself?

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

 I am longing for death.  Forever longing for it.When people around me crave to live, do everything to have a life, I could never understand it. I could never understand the meaning of their desire. I always wanted to die… slowly, painlessly, and alone. Over time, my death instinct  became an inexorable habitual thought. The yearning to merge into an infinite darkness is there, always. The swelling torment I can't put into words. There was nothing, until him, that could dilute my urge to die. I used to think I can hold on a little, until he disappeared. I was obsessed to wither completely.  Look at me now. I think I have died, when he left. What a metaphor, the old cliché, you may think. I can declare this without embarrassment, but I can't express it. It is really so heavy to be afforded by my vocabulary, thoughts, and consciousness... Many moons ago, I listened passively to Nee Mattume by T.M. Krishna. And yesterday night, like a little miracle, it came back to me...
Read more

THE BOOK OF SETHI

PROLOGUE: THE FIRST TIME GRIEF SANG I don’t remember the first time I heard Ali Sethi. I remember what I lost when I did. Something inside me— the part that kept sorrow folded beneath my tongue— opened its eyes. It wasn’t music. It was recognition. A voice that didn’t arrive like thunder, but like memory—slow, precise, mercifully cruel. It sang in the key of ache I inherited but never named. This is not about songs. It’s about the ruins they left glowing. It begins, always, with silence. And then: Ali. 1 TO THE VOICE THAT ARRIVED BEFORE STORM Some nights, I don’t know if it’s rain, or your voice pressing its forehead against my window. Ali, you don’t sing— you stitch. Each word, a needle pulling centuries through my skin. I keep your ragas in my wrists— they flutter when grief walks in, asking for tea and permission to stay. Who gave you the right to know what longing sounds like before I could name it? Who taught your throat to echo the ache I buried beneath my mother tongue? Sometime...
Read more
If love is peeling oranges, then  God is the transcultural smell  residing inside crescent of fingernails. Consuming prayers,  a bead of fragility in hands,  he tells you that : In love we are blind,  In love we are far sighted. His delicate crockeries inside  a filthy broken sink is  his metaphor for us. The way he scrub them is his synonym for violent love  and antonym for soft grief. Once in a while, the shards of his anger  turns me into a silent film  suffocating under city lights. Then you change into a morning  with mourning , Into a ship torn under monsoons, Into a broken concave mirror, Into a prime number in solitude, Into a black hole singing opera. Still we exchange kisses with words  inside  the holes on our throat.  God chain smoking in his evening gown interrupt us with a question,  What is your religion? This is when a love letter switch into  a propaganda poem  written by plum faced ang...
Read more