​
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?

​​It terrifies me how little you care what I think.
The things I feel make people afraid, but when I look through them with a blank stare,
they say that’s scary too.
You speak words that sound nice but reek of lies.