Body.

I always feel
I always go numb
on how these men
see my parts apart

the bulging breasts
the luscious thighs
the arse high

and then I bathe
unimportantly
alone
my body is not conscious
no eyes that roam

top to bottom
bottom to top
bosom to hips
vagina to lips
men know what they want
the body feels their hunger on

parts of it don’t feel home
eyes roam
dissect me part by part
I breathe in
breathe out
breathe in
breathe out
life bursts
and all goes down

bubbles of my body
and graves of men
death asks me to tell them apart
who to choose
who to spare
as if skeletons care.

FLOWERS & RINGS & LOVE

I know people
and they tell
they know me
this time it will be different
my grave will not be lonely
they will bring me
flowers and love
decide if I am rotten enough
kiss me or bid me luck.

I will know soon if
a new message I will have to inscribe
one more grave then
to kill and hide
there is blood on my lips
and dirt on the hands
again the silent trance
and hunger pangs
punch me
to vomit it all out
I have again eaten
my insides out.

Each time I dig a new grave
and fill new crowd
bodies on bodies
crying out loud
warned to lie still
sometimes they wriggle
trying to climb uphill
they hold my spine tight
and try to break me
to be their light
and I gasp for air
to loose this sight
their versions I keep
but I let them slide
every new man
pulls me down
questions ways of my heart
on me he frowns.

And You
I have seen you before
when gardens were lush green
you were like a purpose
that has dreams
while I try to see you differently
you come using the same means
you don’t know how you bring
the same scenes
of us
drinking the blood
being both hungry
and half filled
the continuously rekindling love
in unkindled will
I cannot help but still hear
in this closeness
the echo of dead screams
going in same vicious circles
of flowers and rings.

When It’s ❤️

I apologise for being different,
or all the more same,
he calls me something,
I have to respond,
when in love, that’s my name,

sirens chant the same,
Mersmerized,
play the game,
of being known,
honey, dear, a dame,

sweet pains,
a dove kills a dove, such games,
red always feels alive,
I think cocks fight the real fight,
I relate to their plight,

when sky is clouded,
mind lovely and talks with haste,
dying to be free,
again freedom lovingly put at stake,
those who have been tied know it well,
what it takes,
in matters of heart,
to save the dove,
and also to kill
to not turn into a dove at will,

still when he calls,
I turn to play the game,
become his honey, his dear, his dame,
he says I love you,
I say, Yes here is the cane!
If it’s love the history is same.

While on a trek…

And if I could learn from nature
I would see how everything has roots
and traces that run deep
just like our souls
which sees through
past of our sown seeds
while universe bring future
each second
we worry of present
which as ephemeral as air
that flows past me
moving me for a second
not so beyond
I make it minutes
and convert to hours
revisit glory and pain
nature doesn’t pretend
on moments that have passed
nor does it intensify, glorify or dwell
it just stares in my face
while I pass away
in this world
in a whiff
like a scent
people come and go
and I walk on these treks
wondering
if I can be this peaceful
knowing all
seeing all
aware of all the noise
but still at poise.

I Love Me

I have stopped breaking from the outside
it just causes cracks
shifts happen in the core
and plateaus change
the geography
without anyone knowing
people live happily ever after
and say
that it was meant to be.

My words fumble
when I swallow you in bits
so I gulp you down
give tests, repeat
You ask for 3 words
I say “I am here”
few words have rigid belief
you want complex but
I am forever your simple relief.

I want to bring you the stars
such is my love
but no one wants what they can’t taste
I am bland in my face
and they choose irony
the wisdom of haste
we are but all
the product of our mediocre stakes.

For themselves
they ask myself to define me
how else would they say
that more than you
I love me.

Deep cuts

How deep do you cut without bleeding
and I will call it art
your crimson feathers and stark lurking breath match
the width of blade
which you promised last time you
wont use

what is it you inflict on me for the pain to pass
a whiplash
or the same sweet dread
after red gives you away
and crimson scars turn you beautiful again

My blade
I protect you

and when you convince me of your cowardice
I know you pretend
to be brave
for these nutshells of mines
that you spread across
are just my pilgrims to your sacred heart
so I will reach your shrine to wake you up
and for that moment
that will be the first
and last thing I do for you
and turn to dust
that is all I can take
to make you brave
I can become a scar
the best one for your heart
and you can wear me
pretend like its art.

Walking with Volcanoes

You sit there
humbled
carved
silent
unassociated
like it doesn’t matter
how the ash settled
like you never were burned
under the blossom
there was never a desert
silence speaks
of the things never said
when mountains get tired
people still climb
where do you hide
to stay put
in plain sight
you sit
you belong
where do you walk
how do you go
with that weight
so light
gravitational to the air
the last time you exploded
you kept it all inside
is that how volcanoes die?
and settle to grounds
or they just walk with it
never again to be found

of all the things mountains loose
innocence bothers me the most
people dying to see people
all we find are ghosts.

Let Me Write.

I have to compose something quickly
before hell breaks loose
and urgency of my heavens touch the incarcerated souls
to not burn them again
I have to write
the reminders in time
and adjust the velocity of feelings
each time to a faster pace
and further the gaze
so that the character adjusts the amount of futile references it can make
so as to not smother them and itself
I have to make space
and compose quickly but still not in haste
the metamorphosis renders my incapable past, I suggest myself to last
with the wisdom of gaze that I inculcate
I have to write
so as to not forget
these fillers of past
and metamorphosis of haste
I have to write
the moments of truth
willingness of heart
through my – this ignorant art
to see how my words taste
in your mouth like
the countless things you say
I have to write
allow me if I may.

Real-lies-sation

severe cold of the shutting lungs

scoff for the warm ice cream

mellowing the combustion of cold

shields stay up. lungs fight

of the momentary disguise

in which the cold plays

the warmth of haste 

and sends chills

of the developing taste 

sniffs are the signals

when I go around 

I think I am changing 

but I just change the crowd. 

The Drift.

and she looked at me
in the way I wanted it to be
but it was late
and, I, had places to be
could it fall so fast?
that, which was meant to last
could it be more clear?
my, this face, with your smear
you had said
that it was meant to be
and I said you knew my name
but, then, when you called
I didn’t respond
because it was late
we called it fate
but, what was all that
before all this
when we had time
to sit, define
then again
you had looked at me
in a way it wasn’t meant to be
and when it was not late
we still called it fate

whenever, the tides turned
they never favored
how we moved
and, we always looked backwards
to this drift
from the start
just why had you said
that it was meant to last.