A POET TALKING ABOUT SUICIDE

It was tiring to always play as a mayfly with an elder god here- 

Here, where soil flies under our heels, the worldof living where dead ones move.
Here, the windows were open to the ocean who couldn't  bear the monitoring eyes of a lizard moving with caution, a bio version of peephole trying to make sense of all the lies worshipped.
Here, the fragility of  a porcelain bowl was the free verse the floor is afraid and excited of, enchanting to make its heart flutter of the fall.
Here our throats used to sneeze  thrice when we gulped down sugary milk tea, it's sea skin soft and hot and we forgot to say "blèss you".
Here, we comprehended that white has many hues, just like the Stream of consciousness narrative of a failed writer in the middle of night,his sorrow caricatured in sloppy alphabets.
Here, flavored cigarettes were marked by screams, ones that slip into your mouth without your consent and knowledge, terrifying yourself in all possible ways.
Here, history cups its hard around trauma, and analyse the mishaps of others like breaking of a hand in a war game  with a sympathetic smile.
Here the butcher cut of equinox and the poet is a witness with a pencil which sobs excitedly.
Here the rain choked on chocolate clouds, which is a failure as it is the curator of gills that sing in operas.
While dancing spineless in the air I asked myself about the language we speak here, what is it other than a spoongy bone of blues and blacks ?
Here I felt like a worm over the golden skin of a silky fruit.
Like a childless mother knitting baby clothes.
Like a magnetic field repelling love story of pebbles.
Like a shadow over nights hands.

So, I decided to challenge the insulated dreams of suicide net's.
While trying to create a small island,
I chose peace and violence in a glass in equal measures and
drank it - my thirst is still undefined.
I choose myself, for the first time .
I couldn't wait for a knife to look at me with amusement.
I couldn't wait for the river to lend me jellyfish stings.
I couldn't wait for the rope to wreck the black magic I was poseesed with.
I couldn't wait for the microwave to summon me into its master piece.
I blew holes in the air to erase face.
I prepared myself to visit Ursa minor without packing my bags.
I became a machete, the theif and also the robbed.

I was not going to be a scripture waiting for translation, but a spell devils are afraid of.
It took a lot of courage.
But it was worth it.
I chose it, not because I failed,
not because I was a afraid to be a failure.
Not because of the absence of an antidote.
Here: know the ragged reason:
There was no reason at all.