lavender

i’m walking on daggers

split into two and

quarters and i’m not

scared of my bare feet

but the blood that

will stain the

stainless steel.

i’m rushing over cloths,

wet to the right degree?

of the right texture, softness?

satin or silk or simple cloth?

guessing game of their needs

until i’m sitting on the floor

and the door is closed

and i’ve realised the clock

has made two rounds:

I still haven’t decided

and the wet cloth is dry

and the blood is dry.

 

Stained blades on my floor,

stained blades are my floor.

Mother and Father

water them everyday,

preciously and forgetfully

but on their way they forget

the lavender blood

marks

and do they ever

ask that question?

Where does it come from?

 

They walk over to me,

“please make things cleaner,”

but I can’t hear, for salt water

clogs my ears and maybe

it was too bad to expect

bandaids, so now I look down

and they look down

they say

it will heal on its own:

“you want to help us?”

yes, i whisper.

“Don’t show us this bleeding,

clotting, broken blood”

and I slap my hands

over my feet, they stick

to blood-skin like

clams.

 

Only soft, lavender

baby skin for you,

Mother, Father.

Only sweet perfection,

and uncontaminated writing,

mouths that

never choke and

lips that stay firm

and noses that know

when and how to

breath,

at a constant rate,

and platinum feet

that don’t mind your daggers,

(so I don’t stain your

blades with my

lavender blood.)

(I know it’s a collection

you hold very dear

to you)

 

Don’t bleed at the wrong

time, don’t let lavender fill

you up first fulfil them

or flip inside-out.

But,

 

lavender blood

leaks anyway

through crevices

and bubbles in

my mouth,

they see

it now and finally

they give me plasters.

Plasters to seal these

talking holes,

don’t let any of it escape

I don’t want to see it”

close the holes and close

the bedroom door

and close the corridor

door

and stop bending over,

you can’t cover the

holes like that.

 

Two rounds of a clock.

 

Relief now stretches

over their faces until,

I choke

on some

lavender in

my mouth, again

reflex and

unwanted,

and they sigh.

 

Shut your eyes, baby,

and it won’t be there.

And just play some songs

for me,

but now I have to go baby,

I have to go clean the mess

on our blades

and I just…

have to go..

 

I’ll get back to you

the next day.

You know, when

this whole lavender

idea is out of your head

and we can go

indulge in some food

like we do,

we promise we’ll forget

the stains, okay?

 

Pick anyplace you want,

okay?

As long as it’s not

purple or

lavander, okay?

okay?

 

And I realise the clock has

made more than

two rounds.

 

I still walk on my hands,

hands jammed like clams

on cut feet.

 

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Green ring

It’s a harsh life. Grandfather gifted me a mint leaf yesterday and a jade ring today. I float between this green-ness: an incapsulated reminder that summer will come and the cold will go. This winter bites harder than the last, chained by steel frigidness- we’re all trapped behind bars. Grandfather went out into the front door garden yesterday, to smell and pick the mint for me. He did it because he thought I was sick. Sick in the childhood nostalgic sense: stubborn sneezes, oozy eyes and all. We all let him believe that. I was sick in different ways. It was like this whole time I was walking on cracked glass, and only now did it finally shatter. Never thought I was capable of carrying so much weight, dragging them along to create a path soon sucked up by my quicksand. Never thought I could breathe in and consequently out like a revving engine.

I don’t quite like these comparisons, I’m saying as my eyes rest on the gleaming golden ring. My writing never as polished as that elegant embrace of light and precious metal. Who am I to ponder upon elegance? The whole occurrence was anything but polished, like smudged pencil marks after impatient rubbing on paper. You can never rub out a mistake completely, dear, traces will always remain (shavings too). So this time, I’m not trying to rub it all off, instead I’ll turn the traces into something beautiful. As a human, I have an advantage in finding beauty in the pile of rubble. (define rubble).

Yesterday I fell down a well, and when I hit water, I thought that was it. And when I started sinking, realising the fall wasn’t over, I opened my eyes. All unfamiliar. Burning salt-water, numb hands. Fuck. My oxygen tank was out, I had used it all up, litre by litre, on the voices of the past. Sitting on the hour hand, I weighed her and me out, down to the last breath of air. She shone and kept shining, blinding my eyes, driving my thoughts like moths to her.  The figure of her, her curves, the way she opened her arms to the world. How I, instead, kept them crossed. (I think). Trapped like a marble in an arcade game, bouncing between realities I wish to be, forgetting there was only one exit sign, one place to be, ever. And with all that bouncing and clashing in the maze, I left behind a trail of velleities. And with all that happening in that too-much confined space of my mind, I forgot. I forgot my eternal dance with ink and stories and hearts of people. My sensual strides, barefoot in nature, air fresh and undressing me of my skin. I forgot my magic and how much I loved singing inside seashells and looking up at clouds. How much I desired to unfold my petals to everyone, to it all. To show my radiating, pulsating light. My flower will never be like hers, and our buds will bloom in different ways and we’ll be facing the sun at different times. We were meant to grow into something different. We will have different vines chopped off us and we crawl across different continents and settle at different times. Our missions, infinitely different and that’s what I love about it. My reality must be like this, and her’s like that, it is essential. I’m happy to say we’re carrying it out amazingly.

Dear, we’re different flowers with ever changing, never clashing roots.

Let me marvel at all the tulips, daisies, orchids, roses, sunflowers in the field. All composed of one frequency, love.

opal eyes

She always sat on the same swing, and no matter the weather or the day, he always found her there. Mostly still, hands wrapped tightly around the two chains like pillars and guardians by her side. When she swung in the air, the few rare times she did, her grasp would slightly loosen- and he often thought about how easily he could push her off. Did he plan on pushing her off? No, of course. Never. But it was simply a thought, in the myriads he had about the thousands of opportunities presented before him. He often thought of meeting her, but once again, it played out all in his head: as either a simple, “Hello, I’m Tom.” to “Hello, you baffle me everytime I pass this playground to go for work. I’ve thought of the many times I could introduce myself, and I guess this is it.” He never actually even dared to see her face. All he had to do was walk in front of the playground and not behind, but he was scared that too would ruin the moment, her moment. With her spine gorgeously upright, wood-colored hair tickling the swing seat, muscles tense, she seemed deeply engrossed or entranced by something. What was she staring at? Or was she inside the realms of her mind, just like him. So her, and the thought of who she might be and could mean to him always hummed like a bee in his head, disrupting the music coming from his earphones. At 9:20am, as he made his way to the office, he would witness the epitome of beauty. It was a moment in which he found he was most human. He was a simple human, searching for the beauty in life. And somehow, it had always presented itself to him in her form.

She always wondered who the footsteps belonged to. Everyday, when the sun took up a particular spot in the couch of the sky, a particular set of shoes would hit the ground. How could she tell?

She was blind.

She saw in different ways: the feeling of transparent heat tiptoeing from her lap to her arms, would tell her the whereabouts of the sun and whether noon had striked yet. She could pick up the movement and crunching of gravel and estimate the shoe size and heaviness of a person too. So just as she picked up all kinds of patterns in her life, she picked up this one.

It was a slower stride, the gravel moved languidly under the heavy soles. It was a man, she concluded, after the first 3 times of his passing. Sunlight would heat up her fingertips and that was the signal. Scrunch scrunch scrunch. Then there would be a pause. He was probably looking her way. She never turned around though, for she wanted to keep him spellbound, to keep her assumed beauty intact. Refusing to wear sunglasses, her blind eyes remained wide open, like two big milky opals dominating her face. They took all the attention away from her praised facial features, thus, ruining her to-be witchcraft on men.

And both of them went on like this, her hair melting down her spine, merging with tufts of silky clouds in the sky. Him, like a hungry beggar, following behind, yet never getting too close. Both too scared human touch and voice would interrupt the sacredness of the moment. Both never realising they had become each other’s highlight of the day, each other’s break-for-a-second, where breaths felt fresher and life, brighter.

She only ever heard him, and he only ever saw the idea of her beauty.

“Nothing gold can last.”

One day, when fall was undressing into winter, it got too cold and she decided to walk back to grab a coat. Picking the stick lying on the floor, she turned around a minute too early, for the sun didn’t shine that day. He was passing by, as usual. Both were slightly too slow to realise what was happening until a small gasp crossed the air between them. Tom pondered upon those eyes, then regained his footing and walked past her. He walked away, towards his office, and towards finding another source of beauty.

The next day, she didn’t sit on the swing, neither did he walk past it. And neither the day after that, or ever, in fact.

Like humans do, he moved on to the next spark and she moved on with life as if there had never been any interruption.

acid & tender.

tender airplane

lamps,

stretching

arms

grasping seemingly for

something,

yet nothing.

 

acid like my

reflection.

5 lamps stuck to

each side of the mirror

so I can better

hunch into furrows

I’ve dug in my

dreams

of you.

 

Acid like covering

your ears

when flushing,

in that tiny

gasoline

toilet

cubicle.

 

All this trudging

of feet to find

a recognisable head,

TV screen,

“oh that’s my seat?”

 

in tampering darkness.

 

Acid spreading like this

cycle treading

takes over my

migraines-

soon I realise

 

it’s all tenderness

compared to my thought

of you. Whispers

of you

even on this modern,

apathetic,

emotionless

plane.

(yet you still creep in)

 

3 movies, 6 hours.

Inevitably, like a

prisoner paralysed

by their own

choices

watching

pixelated lovers

circling other lovers:

I’m wearing coloured

lenses, filtering

all these loves with

past versions

of you and more

of you.

 

I wish it could all stop

because it’s blinding

me from the true

experience of

a simple,

tender,

airplane ride.

 

They distribute

perfectly marvellously, moist

lukewarm towels.

Distracted only for

a few flying

fleeting seconds

before heat scampers

into frigidness.

 

i think i just

miss your heat to the

point where it’s

neither

tender

nor

acid?

 

so before landing

i’ll let my acid love

spread up my legs

 

(i really don’t know

how you find tenderness in it,

darling)

.

Munich, time to turn

the hour hand back.

 

let the wound open

yesterday

was worst than

a blizzard

but it

cracked open

a pill i didn’t

know i had gulped

down

and so it gushed

open like

a wound

and i realised

i was out of plasters

 

 

and i scrambled

for tape or

cloth or anything

that could stop

this bleeding

of

accusations

inflations of

future

deflations

revelations

probations (mostly)

 

 

and so i tried

running-

skin against

wisps of wind

and rain

hoping that snake

bite would get

caught between

my huffs and

puffs

and melt away

 

 

but instead

it spread like acid

like inadequacy diluted

with who i want to be

and this whole

time I’m asking

why i’m not who

i want to be

and why i still

can’t talk the right

perfect way

and why everything is

not yet quite perfect

so the mind goes

on a merry-go round

and these thoughts

bleed

spew out

laugh

spit in my face

 

 

i’ll keep

spitting blood

i’ll keep breaking

the veins in my nose

so all i smell is iron

and rust

 

 

finally i give up

on bandaids and

running and let

the wound open

this time i’m holding

a magnifying glass

not a gun

i’m not ready to

fight or

fly

may you be

may you be

chartreuse liqueur

makes a small den

in the space between us,

wrapping itself up

into a small cocoon

to then slowly have itself

unravel

by my hands-

your hands

 

so as we unravel

and as it unravels

i find myself pinpointing,

us, on a great big

map

dotted lines suggest

where we were

where we’ve been

and it’s one long winding

road, tainted by the same

chartreuse lamps

 

sitting between the

rocks and your legs,

humming

 

too often i find myself

realising

the traced pencil marks

(on the map)

of places we could go

maybe on bike

or car or train

maybe with money or without

maybe the trip

is all in our mind.

so it’s all maybe there

or somewhere else

maybe i would like that

maybe not really

 

my limbs, tangled between

“may” and “be”

and i look up,

back to you,

and start thinking

 

you’re may,

you’re newborn summer

fresh and dirty

full of bee’s buzzing

and may you be

my

emerald birthstone or

simply the sudden rainfalls

you’ll still be buzzing with

that life that reminds me of

may. reminds me

of the day i was born

so i can be born over and

over again everytime

we sit side by side,

small little bee

in may,

you remind me of –

 

may you be

that

or something

else,

or

maybe,

just let me

envelope you.

 

maybe i love how you’re

maybe this or maybe that

remain undefineable

i find that entrancing-

to put it bluntly-

 

(and to put it more bluntly,

every time you’re here,

you surprise me with something

new,

 

a new way of seeing:

like im wearing glasses for the first

time

over and over

again)

infinite tenderness

Being reunited with your first childhood love is something that feels very sudden, out of place, yet completely in place: fitting like a puzzle piece into your life. Seeing her again is like closing my eyes on a rollercoaster and opening them again only when they tell you to take off your seatbelt: and you feel like you’ve missed out on this whole middle chunk and you wished you were there to see it (yet you also don’t), so you just get the end product delivered to you. No labels. No preamble. Just the person with a smile that has shifted slightly and eyes that have lost and gained hope for what seems like centuries. And you remember seeing her joyous and naïve and ignorant, her eyes wide open like gemstones begging for light, for life to hit them. But it’s still all there. And the whiff you smell when she passes you is always the same and you know that if you were to squeeze her all into one drop of essential precious oil, it would smell as strongly and beautifully as it did three years ago. She wears scars now, but she also wears the same golden nail polish, and this little curious quirk has popped up in her- and it drives me crazy: her curiosity for life. She’s sticking her tongue out to taste what it feels like to be alive. And I’ll always feel this infinite tenderness towards her.