Monday, January 30, 2012
I am writing
I write because:
I was always told to shut up at home.
My tongue is an incorrigible sleaze.
And my mother couldn’t veil her passionate anger for my words.
She was assured that I was disgusting.
He, convinced me that my dreams wished too much
And I could be tackled like a dirty drawing..
You just have to lurk my name in nights, stitch it with a sooty room and bleary eyes.
I could be a secret he could moan in the bathroom and I demanded more place
My love had no meaning.
It was left as a devouring maze.
So my heart strayed with loneliness that had no language of its own
And it poached papers, mangled ink, to weave stories to forget.
Verses smoked on my patience and
I saw that beauty could sometimes hurt.
I insulted having regrets.
So I write because, I am thirsty to be loved.
I write to imagine that
You still miss me and I brew nostalgia along with a syrupy tea.
I dance alone, provoke amnesia.
My fingers play whom-would-you-fuck
On the men grazing the jammed roads and my eyes lick each word
Dropped on the notorious walls, around the tea stalls and on the
Pendants sagging from the temple arches.
I look for your face even in this city, where triangular windows teeth ancient history.
I block out the drone of a dead city. My thoughts fray into in my ears. I wish I could rinse the morning sun in my bathroom.
I hear my stomach churning and I crib that my Boost drink is nothing as compared
To the one served in Madurai Café.
I smolder longing into newer packets.
I dream more. I become fatally addicted to them.
I go back to where we were and coming back becomes harder,
So I start writing again.
Sometimes I write to you, because your silence pierces through my spine
And shoots into stars on my window before it twirls into Japanese Blossoms..
It starts peeping into my blood and I feed my veins, my splintered heart.
I write to arouse. I write to spit on you.
Maybe I right the wrong things, but I write what I really have to say.