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Summer, Stats and sleep(I wish)

6 minute read

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Summer’21 was probably the most challenging summer my nineteen-year-old self has faced. I will not go on about I have become stronger now, eh well, I could say I have become more of myself. Staying in your room for 14 months, living with yourself every day does that to a person. I am not complaining. I have been more privileged than most people; nothing “major” happened to me personally, except maybe utter chaos. Anyway, this post is not a sob story, although I feel like I could not talk about this summer without first addressing the elephant in the room - we collectively experienced a pandemic, and we are all exhausted. Now that we have said that, the summer was not all that bad. I will tell you-

poetry

Acetylene Poems

lately i wake up with stale acetylene in my throat,
out of breath and everything else too.
i make wordless vessels mumble my curriculum vitae
of not breathing. stitched lips,
draped in a jaw, clenched and stiff with guilt.

Boisterous Emptiness

emptiness so boisterous,
knives feather around it;
that’s what i fill my vases with,
of course there’s a white flower
dangling on top. i lie on the floor
and trace chandeliers with broken glass,
be quiet, absolute silence;
i’ll show you the abyss between my palms.

Brittle Bones

i’m a statue of ash
stitched together with stale air,
my fears snuggle up in the cracks of walls,
the ones that i paint like sour cream;
they bundle up between the crinkles
on my piled up laundry, dressed like
overdue receipts of shoplifted love.

Crimson Ophelia

i’m drawing a dull headache on the walls;
noise smeared across the room.
wreaths braided with a noose -

empty except for ___

i’ve been hanging mismatched smithereens of life on my bones, some days
when you break open
splinters of laughter
in my gut, the emptiness
walks itself out the door.

hellcat

the cat sits there
digging its claws into the linty mattress,
she drowsily dumps her head on the floor;
pinned against the knots in air -
like a dull mustard painting
waiting to be sold
in those dimly lit indie art houses;
i keep nauseating myself
into an oversaturated canvas.

i’m worried about her

i’m worried about her
she hasn’t slept in days,
when she does,
she’s screaming about graveyards in her sleep.
when she starts talking, it’s like looking in a mirror.

Janitor’s Ghost

the navy robed shadow drags his drenched boots,
he cascades like a stick figure under the dome
eating itself up.
his mouth is stuffed with hardened bread,
it falls off his skin like the wall peeling itself down,
in abandoned buildings its always fall.

Laundry day loneliness

a crisp day neatly hangs
between summer dresses you don’t wear.
the angels in yellow
frown at your flaxen shear.
bland cereal starts staring back at your flat eyes
half a fist of sorrow passes through your ribs.

Male Gaze

men close my palms with pamphlets of desirability,
all of them begin with pursed lips;
all of them end with me shrinking.

Mother

here’s what I remember
there’s a troubled lady in my head,
walking up and down
all of the alleys visited only by the dead.
sixteen circles around time, with a noose,
she measures its threads like rosary beads.

epitaphs are the morning prayer,
blood till break o break is the national anthem.
she would burn a fire on her palm everyday,
just to make sure she’s still flammable;
i try to dig up skin for her but she sits there -
a souvenir of doom. cautious! soak in the child’s crying;
what if he turns stillborn over your blink.

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.

the exact middle

it all began in bright hysteria,
a purple syrup you swallow;
the one lovers smear on their palms-
you might as well call it
the moment sitting at the edge of a knife,
legs dangling atop fervent obsession.

tired, again

there’s a tired boy outside my window,
his face flutters with the wind;
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.
sometimes tired falls down on me-
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.

train

look! there’s a neon train galloping in the sky;
look, it’s looking at me.
i’m so special it’s gonna run over me,
darling, you know right?

vaine gloire

my eyes flinch under your footsteps,
you’re stitching a doom on my fingers;
an infinite needle dips itself in my skin-
rusted with my dad’s vaine gloire.

watch you watch me

watch you watch me,
flung my head off my eyeballs;
now i only exist in front of the mirror watching,
i’m screaming in the middle of the afternoon;
wrapped myself in sheets till i feel like a person again,
don’t you see?
i need you to notarize my tragedies.

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