tired, again

there’s a tired boy outside my window,
his face flutters with the wind;
almost as if sand waiting to be washed over by the waves.
it keeps returning, a sigh stuffed in your mouth
with alien mannerisms you don’t follow.s
ometimes tired falls down on me-
like a motel bed sheet i clutch after staining
the ones at home;
fall isn’t as beautiful as the poets declare,
it’s mostly just falling.
when i put out my wounds on the streets for display,
it’s not for a passerby to nurse them;
we’re past that,
now i wait for them to shy away,
to quiver and disappear with all that gaze.
i hold your hands wrapping mine in plastic gloves,
i stink of hideousness;
there are paperweights on my fingernails,
they look like apologiesin languages I don’t know.
i scream in porcelain jars filled with glycerin
till my nose starts bleeding;fragile
is written in minuscule text on the sides of my fingers.
everyday is an advertisement for death,
with eyes like scalpels;
insinuating to be saved
in a rusty fall which withers down daffodils.
it’s all becoming yellow,
yellow is the saddest colour,
it sits on my face like a dead albatross;
it holds my poems at gunpoint,
but everyone likes being held.
i fill up these shrivelling straws with rotten wine-
all summer i built a cage for the nightmares,
it all crumbles down under a careless stranger’s boots
clumsily plodding through piles of fall clinkering on the streets.
the cold compress on my head
starts smelling like a white clad nurse:
the ones that disappear in hospital corridors
like niceties spiralling into erasure.
stay, stay, staye
choes on my throat
like a sick lady with her rosaries:
smiles, i eat them up like the horizon swallows the sun;

meenal jhajharia

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