Tonight is the Dying Kind of a Day

After staring at my computer screen for long hours,

I stood by the sink waiting to puke, maybe, I thought – whatever I’m choking on would throw itself out,

But my mute had become cancer, it spread inwards. Even my silence was eaten up, nothing came out of the throat that once sang fire songs and bullet hymns. I could sit without moving for half the day and the other half, my nerves wouldn’t stop banging themselves hard on my flesh, turning me into a hurricane.

A few hours back I wanted to write a poem about how I never realised that Amma, she came with a ticking clock,

My one hour of ignorance now causes her four hours of anxiety, my Amma who could dance on songs of Rafi, now lets her heart settle with echoes of sad songs.

People too come with expiry dates but unlike medicines we want to keep the people around even when their rescue dates are quite near, people were better medicines, always.

In the morning, I wanted to write about an old house that I miss, the chirping of the birds outside my window,

They bring to me the smell of those curtains, yellow leaves dipped in raindrops, the swing that was safe, the slide where bullies didn’t push you hard, the rope that sticked to my body more than my own soul, the blood that left it hollow forever after.

A minute back I wanted to write a poem about how an artist forgets to get back home even when he does return,

How do people count projects and assignments, schedules and meetings more than they can remember coffee mugs and reasonless conversations?

Yesterday night, I wanted to right about the things that were suddenly making me cry, a micro second of tears and hours of chocked breath neither reaching my tongue nor gulping itself down my guts.

Wearing a jacket that smells of you and ointments that I use to cure cold, not able to figure out which side to sleep, an aching finger or a soundless still soul that won’t utter even a murmur of its pain, what counts?

I wanted to write a poem about people who write stories about choosing adventure over love, I wanted to write about why I chose love over adventure and that seemed like seeking a validation. And then, I wanted to write a poem about validation.

There are days when I can write poems like layer by layer I’m ripping my skin off and it doesn’t even pain, like I’m throwing lillies over my head and they come back turning into rainbows, like every drop of blood in me breathed poetry.

Then there are days when I can’t even spell POETRY, in a single attempt. I read Rumi like I’m reading a nursery rhyme and I read Wolf and Plath like I’m reading an article on trend setters.

I am a sea of strangers beating each other off to scoop out the bitterness,

But all they see is dust grooving with the air: my nerves still jammed worst than a busy red signal. I sometimes think I don’t have a way with winters, maybe I should be in the mountains high on vodka whole day long, at least my spirit won’t freeze to death.

If being fragile ever meant being vulnerable, I could call myself the poetess who could be a goddamn goddess but —

being fragile doesn’t open wounds up like buds waiting to turn into flowers, being fragile shuts the graveyard even stronger,

being fragile some days only means a louder silence, poems moving in circles in stomach like a hullabaloo, tongue tied up and a soul that slept on half bottle of pills without its alarm clock on.

// tonight is the dying kind of a day //

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