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.

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.

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.

Consonance

Because people give up by now,
wiping off the mopped floor, squeaky clean,
marble white,
I reflect.
Painted the windows white, walls red,
no bloody stains here.

Furniture is white,
dining table round and of pine,
this is where I dine,

they say 1 day at a time.

Because people give up by now,
cleaning brownish-blackish gunk on the stove,
over flown, forgotten, I scrub, clean it bright,
I cook,
I surprise.

Because people give up by now,
killing, poisoning, stumping on other roaches.
In corners quietly they repair who pretended to die,
I put my makeup,
got few more lives to live.

A rusty old watch I clean, memories creep,
speak, have you forgotten me, I am low.
This time I don’t pack it back.
I let it hang, in my sight, with a lighter mind,

they say 1 step at a time.

Because people give up by now,
pretending to be cursed,
pretend what you may.
In plain sight, I have let it go.
They are they and I am me.

1 day at a time,
1 step at a time,
1 life at a time.
Because, most people give up by now.

Black Box

I was looking at you through the black box

thought that was all everyone ever wanted

                     to not be related to their own hands

infinity, then an undone task 

of 1000 possible futures 

relates me to the nonexistent you

and I look at you through the black box 

and my shining eyes 

reflect all white

like when lies

work around for long

feel like they belong

                      and in the potholes cultures cursed 

the saint 

who did not listen

and didn’t let a scum die

there were still a few things 

left 

for both to try. 

Edge

What would you sit there and wonder

let me tell you

love fear hate derision pretense 

all were true

it was best to not wonder more

so we did not

but if you sit and I cross your mind

know you cross me too

now when we swim across 

to more oceans 

and different lands

if you find me in another 

find me then for her 

and you will find me for me

I will till then try to loose you

and un-clinch my fingers

grappling your version with me

hoping that you find 

the same unsettling love

which settled in me

and then maybe you will see everything left behind 

was same and more

but now lost 

on the edge of our past.