​ 
(eyes the colour
of stuck thorns)
the inevitable
confinement

​TW: mental health & self-harm
“My hair was kept so short, combed flat when wet. I never knew my hair
was wavy until I was nearly twenty-two and never went outside with wet
and uncombed hair until I was twenty-eight.”
-Kazim Ali, “Home”

TW: death and grief, obsessive-compulsive disorder
Sometime during my sophomore year of high school, in the middle of one of our increasingly frequent fights, my mom said, “I lost my mother to fear; I won’t lose you too.” My father took it a step further.
“Think about Grandma Mary,” he said. Then, “And look what happened to Grandma Barb.” 

​

​This is a letter for the broken soldier,
The shattered man who’s lost his mooring post,
He walks with heavy steps among company who fractured with him,
Nurses wounds that go deeper than skin, deeper than flesh,

Trigger Warning: Loss
​
​Minutes before midnight, when the last lights in the neighborhood insist on dimming, the mother walks down the dirt path that leads, like every other street here, to the wishing well, the one each house overlooked, including theirs.

Trigger Warning: Mention of Suicide

​What is the weight of a body
When depression is the anchor holding
A boy from laughter ?
 It’s been two years now & a post on Facebook  
Reminds me of you—a girl

​
i.
verdigris festers on the cleft // mossy spiderwebs spiral from the orifice
​blood rusts the hook // iron corrodes the tarnished silver
withered skin peels into fractals // drought disfigures my complexion 

​Cloudy sunlight absorbs me.
My soul.

My thoughts melt into puddles on my pillow.
Clothes curl in the corners of my room.

I.
You carried carrots, ‘poha’ and
eggs in your tiffin everyday.
Sometimes cucumbers, too.
Your own friends would slice you
into two
with a butter knife right down the centre
And sprinkle ‘chaat masala’ on you,
{mocking you by saying that it was
bad for you} 

​

By the apartment complex next to mine, on the corner of the garden that meets the concrete stairs, there used to grow little orange flowers. They were small and delicate, with bright orange petals, with purple dots and golden pistils, and bundles of green leaves. I’d pick them every time I went outside and bring them back to my house. I’d place them in water cups and they’d wilt within the day.

Was I...supposed to be happy?
The cold numbed my fingers. Cotton muffled the noise of my jittering bones.
“Nice to meet you.”
There came my reserved whisper. I vaguely remembered muttering my name before giving a slight, instinctive bow and sitting on a comically familiar chair. 

​

{TW: suicide]

every s that spills from your tongue
reminds me of every moment that slipped from our grasp
​those dwindling days under endless stars,
not as bright as the void in ours
Stop
​           Stop
                       Stop 
​it echoes in my eyes,
on trembling lips,

​
we livestream our consciousness
hiding conscience behind cohesion
hello, do you know your name?