chaiNboli

My smile first found its way In your celestial chest long ago While the umbilical cord was not  this weak to hold us together. I have been alive long enough  to understand the curves of your mouth  and glitter of your eyes  and I know while you search if I wear a red whorish smile.  You put me in a glass box and  took me out once in a while but never found the dust and cracks.  In the dinner table you examined me  like an unknown bacteria  asexually reproduced in a petridish,  but never understood the mutations  I underwent.  You interpreted my dreams  in words of unprocessed sugar , playing roles of God squeezing me  like clay in hands. When Iam too embarrassed to  blow out the birthdat candles  you tell that it is just  the season of growing up,  ignoring my plea to be  alone. You braid my hair and put lotion on itchy pink bumps of mosquito bites but am clever enough to hide  the purple...

  We move in circles  inside a doom spiral, two kids playing God  breaking each other in synchronous melodies. There is wrath spreading it's wings over your mulberry kisses and a magnificent laziness layered over the stolen hours in our favorite cafe.  Hold my poem in your hand  just like a newborn with toothless smile,  Pick my tears like wild berries and savor it in an evening  while you watch the blue sky  Turn to a cynical pink  Drape your breath over my  Shoulder bone  Your blue worries knitting floral patterns on it. Feed me the red yolks of eggs while I invoke the ghost, living rent free in your right ventricle, and then we three will play  Hide and seek.  Clean me like a stained crucifix laying forgotten inside a nameless medieval church,  Chanting every prayer you know   and every sin you committed.  May be then I will be able  To forgive myself  For choosing you over me, Always.

 There is a child  swimming in my arteries,  listening to Grimm brother stories,  whispering in thunder nights  A thousand secrets I wish to erase . Moving in circles I listen  To her haunted laugh  And hide it in candy wraps Along with my sour poems. There is filth under my toes  so that I can claim  my territory of pain  Where clay pigeons sing  the poems of Darwish in their soothing voice. Blood bubbles bloom under my pale nails , Your white silence drumming  In my ears.  My tears moves through  neon drainage pipes  while I reapply my  raspberry red lipstick in the bathroom,  tryinf to loosen my throat  so that I can say "am fine ". Dried rose petals excavated under my teeth,  lined with your coffee breath  in my pale lips. Sitting in a pseudo French restaurant  I find your lips dripping poetry with an ease of a ballerina,  your warm honey glow  I try to hold in my ...

 now that am dining with the devil  I have a poem to give you  Unzip your throat and recite  Each and every word I wrote  Sew then to the left ventricle with cotton strings from your favorite kerchief,  Prussian blue coloured.  But remember to hide my name  a yellow star- faded, frayed and torn Waiting for the final holocaust  In an unknown territory of tongues.  Your mouth is a poison gland Where verses taste like toothpaste  Your love thin as air that we carefully preserved in rustic frames you bubble wrapped me in a glass coffin, my breath drawing foggy sketches of the  "Starry night " And you  middle finger dipped in the dark red of my heart  You made me drink silence like a bitter cough syrup,  My throat burned and burned, I was the mermaid princess who lost her voice in exchange of two bony legs  You weaved a glittering sheet  Over my eyes and hissed  "Don't come crying to me " You eavesdropp...

 Season after season I sit on my cot, frowning at my wasteful life  a lazy melancholy in my brown eyes,   so careful that I hold a scythe to kill the devil who tries to rob me. I am a pack of bones wrapped in a brown paper designed with hair follicles, waiting to be placed in a coffin , a useless gift for him_  him with a capital H. Under the moon I stand  studying the delicate pattern of Van Gogh's ear my grief weighting me like the wings of Icarus. For me grief is a habit passed down like a folk song into my hungry palms to be uncoiled in silence of a bleeding sunset . It is the green mollusca growing in my spine kissing my neural system, cancerous spreading to every corner of my onion thin cells. It is the misty air trapped inside spongy lungs of mine like an illicit child in a lover's womb. It is an unsung lullaby to my favorite cat mutilated by some stranger in the street,  it's head boiled in my luke warm love. It is a poison mushroom I feed myse...

 I am some one loves too hard that my best friend calls me "little dumb redhood" but she doesn't know the air crushed inside my lungs is a privilege. I have fed my love to a certain bastard, and wiped his mouth with the sleeves of my favorite dress.  I have kept the dog collar he gifted under my pillow, neatly and digged the brown soil with a metal tooth to camouflage a bleeding womb. I have hidden my name under the flower pot, my ink spilled for a wild flower  it's leaves dark as night,  the golden thorns scooping raw flesh of my papaya heart. Blood blooming in my mouth, small crimson flowers while he turns all my golden chains to straw, a saddist magician. And when night comes you shred his skin cells, a white serpent with lollipop eyes, and become a mere man who puts his head in my ribs,  crushed and tattered with secrets I can't  tell you. Drawing circles on my hand his pangs on my cleavage while the last iota of resistance drowning in abyss of pain. He...

 Wearing a veil of amnesia my grandmother wakes every night from her rosewood cot and examines my throat,tells me not to utter a single word and places a sugar cube in my naive tongue.  Like a good daughter I smile and thank her and call her 'Nani' when she returns to a blue blurry silent zone and asks me who I am. I tell her am a profound cell, so small but with so much inside me. I am the burnt mole on mother's wrist an unlucky charm she hides under a leather strap of her favourite watch. I am the rolled tobacco resting on my father's bottom lip, soon to be ash without a proper burial. I am a broken crayon in my brothers school box melted,ignored and lost interest in. Iam my lover's old poetry, written, read and re read then locked in the bottom drawer of cupboard,forgotten. I am the adamptant breath inside an eighty year old's rugged lungs, dancing to an orchestra of denial.  Iam an old scarf picked from the streets,  much loved that washed, hung and ironed, ...