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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an ode to new books

i’ve never really

written down how

much i marvel at new

books

 

 

new books begging

with their legs open,

open me,

crack my spine

click

clack

click

watch every node

snap open

for you

 

 

flip through my

pages like

lightning, i’ll

fan out words

with gusto

 

 

soft, yet hard,

confident cover,

matte and slick

my fingers,

horny, scratch

and slide over the surface

feeling the soft bumps of

curves of the title.

 

 

i’ll penetrate

pages at random,

eyes flirting with words,

but barely skimming them,

saving them for the future.

my nose, instead, saves

nothing and places itself

completely submerged

between two flat papers

inhaling magic and newly

pressed printed smells of inks

and yellow

 

 

dear new book,

i’ll hold you with one

hand, then two,

flip you over like a pancake

in a pan

slice you open like

new cottage cheese,

 

 

i set here in bed,

9am,

ready to deflower you

people are having a drink,

souls are

semi-permeable

semi-convulsional

not at all

conventional

why must we

intoxicate

this thin

veil

in order

to unveil.

realise your

flesh is

transparent

and

your veins

run with

naked

passion,

inexcusable.

 

 

just take

your coat off,

its all too

transient

to bake

in these wooden

sleeves,

so intrinsically

intricately varying

in colors,

shades

tones

so different each

precious soul,

encased in

this humanity.

i just want

to hold you

and raise you

to the next level of

consciousness

city hair

And just like that, like a breath of fresh air, or a warm breeze, like the handing of summer into autumn, she disappeared. Without much of an eruption, silently, she was catapulted into the world, with her hair still on fire. What now? So as she slithers beyond alleys, she waits and braids her hair into waterfalls and forks. She’ll spin tales of what has been on these forks, and turn them into tridents. The city is noiselessly noisy, white and somehow, suddenly, holding these tridents of tales, she feels incongruent.

When the sun sets and the city’s ablaze, where will she go? Which gates will open for her now? Now unchained, she’s free to frolic and fight the night till the early hours- but the red, raw, skin on her wrists ache for the chains, somehow. Because with the chains come the tales and turbulences. So she dreams of those chains and metal, gates and fences, waking up to the taste of iron.

The next few mornings she wants to cut her fire hair- each strand maliciously weighing down on her (and she’s got her luggage for that.) So longingly, she’ll twirl her hair and twirl down her path, with the past twirling behind her. For a while, for now, she knows she’s a lizard with a chopped off tail. Left behind, it moans and wriggles. “Take me back, I beg you!”

 

So she nurtures this beautiful tail of hers, composed of all the colors she’s collected throughout the almost 24 months. Her hands trace ridges and scales and stop upon the empty spots, white, like the city, begging to be filled. “Just a little more, one more drop.” Those spots remain as they are, and both the tail and her learn to accept white as a color.

 

The day she leaves, looking down from the plane window, she can point out the treasures she’s buried and disowned on the land. She’ll see the souls down there and her, up there and all she wants to do is stitch the two worlds back together. And the past still glistens like an emerald palace, an open wound and her hair’s still ablaze, ignited like a cigarette. She’ll come back home alight, like that, glowing and dripping adrenaline. “What a wild ride it’s been.”

Time passes. She begins weaving her old world into the fresh, impatient new one. She never knew she could do that till now

 

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.

humans

Humans are so intricate, like finely tuned violins. If you strum them with enough fragility, they’ll sing you tunes that are out of this world. And for every phase of the moon or mercury, they’ll bathe you with their sweet little personalised melody. At times, these tunes full you up to the brim with melancholy hopeless despair, then they’ll tip you over like a water bottle as you watch yourself spill out your tales. Tales of how deep a cave your heart is and how many shadows splay upon it every time moonlight crawls in. Other times, it’s as if their tunes were to empty you all out. You’d imagine them place a straw and suck you dry when you never even realised you were a full bottle. They sing to you lullabies with a voice that dips down, then arches high with peppermint breath. All you do is lull your head back in pleasure, hands waving in the air, intertwining with all the magic around you.