Neurotic Rot

three summers back i took a train,
i’m still looking to get off
or any preposition you’d like.
plath said its neurotic,
the way i fling myself on every crumb of desire,
and flinch at its sight.

i quietly whisper to one of the headless faces
inside my head-
its okay, its okay just accept like smithereens
of your own, very own colossal annihilation.
i nod and give in, i wake up from half a blink
and feel like metal is stitched to my organs.
every crumbling spring, i sit down with a scalpel;
dig out foreign blood in my guts-
but grief has an odd lineage.
i carry some from the old lady across,
i pick it up when a careless kid kicks it with sand
and leerily dote on it when you throw it on my face.

it’s a fresh morning, an acrid fever
traces itself on my spine;
when was it, was it a blurred afternoon,
singing itself a lonely lullaby
in the scorching light of being seen-
after which breath did i, just stop.
i keep telling myself
to make peace with my dead chunks,
but sometimes they wake up-
they don’t like how i left them bruised
and locked them in tombs smelling like sulphur and rot,
the kind of rot that settles on my bedsheets.
the kind of rot, that isn’t the kind
pretty girls chew over wine.

meenal jhajharia