LETTER TO A STRANGER

To whomever reading this,

Poetry is the second form
Of therapy i studied.
The first was suicide.
Are you calling me a land mine in walking?
I speak in metaphors you say.
I live in similies you scoff.
If I say the pavements are softer 
than the home, will you laugh?
I collect corners of masterpieces, 
A flower picker no goddess will smile at.
My chlorin skin lined with blue lines,
an inferno in place of chest,
a polaroid brain
not brave enough to forget.
If i swallow so much sunlight
Will i become what you want me to?
I weight myself and try to
take care of my grief,
Just like a sparrow
trying to lift an elephant,
And when i smile it tastes like
a Halloween candy in starving mouth.
Do me a favour.
Burn an incense stick on my throat,
until only silence remains,
until am longer a lier.
If i stop inviting my lovers with stories of tragedy, will they stay a little longer holding on to my fractured fingers?
Do me a favour, will you?
Erase all the screams in my dreams,
which i mistook for songs,
may be then the end will make sense.
When i say i have lived enough,
you ridicule me, but this is 
my young wisdom, so note it down.
This wounds are ghost stories ,
crooning songs of loss,
a muddy lane where cranes
come to lit the pyre of their innocence.
Keep my soul with you,
luring the poems never written,
May be then you will know that
there are wars no one report.
Tear me apart, spit on me.
But
Do not think of me as an art
soft enough to fit in your grocery bag,
Please.
//And if you ask me if this is my last letter,
I will say that am not sure,
For i dont want to lie to you
My beautiful stranger//

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