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Of All Creation…

Today I want to create

Today I want white dresses

Painted in blood, in red dirt, in grass stains

In rays of sunshine

…Unwrinkled by the wind and wet heat

Today I want to create

Today I want seeds planted on the inside

(To be a walking ground; a foundation not phased by shifts)

Hands to my chest

So you may feel that the seeds beat too

(Just give ‘em some time)

Today I want to create

Today I want love dripping down my thighs

Until sticky

Until translucent turns flakey

Today I want my screams turned into song

My grip.  Turned into push.

My tears turned into oceans blue

No, into freshwater true

Can you swim?

Are you thirsty?

Would you like me to bathe you?

Today I want to create

Today I want to be loved

Into creation

…To loudly whisper love back into

You

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growth

sometimes, growing
is more painful
than the hurt
that got you there.

growing is claws
scratching at your skin
and chipping away
at your bones.

growing is spitting out
your lover’s name
like it was a bitter plum
with a seed too big
to even think
about swallowing.

sometimes growing
is cutting away
your favorite parts,
and mowing down
that tall grass
that so many men
have tried to peek through.

sometimes growing
doesn’t feel like growing.
it feels like breaking,
and you look in the mirror
and see more jagged bottle
than woman.
but you know that
all this breaking
and shattering
got to mean something
one of these days.

so you keep at it.
you pluck the words
from your tongue,
cut the roses until
your blood tastes
like honey from all the thorns,
and trim the weeds away—
least they strangle you
in your sleep and
you lose all that good dirt
you’ve been putting down.

(image by Oscar Obians via unsplash)

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what mourning looks like

the bed still smells like his aftershave.
the cup he used is still sitting on the counter.
his clothes still hang in the closet.
you still listen to his voice from
the last message he left.
there are pictures littering the floor.
your friends tell you it’s time to move on.
pack the clothes away—haul them off to goodwill. Continue reading what mourning looks like

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Concrete

I have swallowed enough of this city’s concrete and I am now filled with it
I am convinced the crushing feeling I wake up with is simply
the overflow of it in my chest and that somewhere beneath it in my heart is a seed
and that somehow the springtime will push something blossoming through

because Continue reading Concrete

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Foresight

In the midst of a field

Maybe if the universe gave me a chance
or time did, to keep my wheel of life running
my heart would still pray, to time again
to keep the one I love, to hold my hand
by my side, till time does its duty.

I would watch, leaning on his shoulders
generations of the future, spinning galaxies
and turning time around their wrists, running
along the path, that unfolds like a carpet
opening portals to newer, stranger things.

I would curate the memories made, and recover
the ones lost, at times and tides tempestuous
make plaques and statues out of them, and
finally, a temple in which my children would come
and make themselves owners, to these memories, lost.

I would forever, keep doing this, till I’m tired
till my heart is tired, till my soul stretches out
to the golden thread of salvation, weaving
a fabric of age and the final time, shrouded
over what will be left of me, a feeble human body
till I’m contented with what I’ve become, and
slowly disappear like a mirage, fade away, for
the future child to spin my stories someday.

(from ‘MUSINGS OF A SPEARHEAD’- to be published)

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The Children’s Way

We forget the days of

Our ambiguous bodies.

Young frames, stretching

Away from the weight of gravity.

We were aware of neither

Death nor life,

Thus words of dislike

Would not yet cling to us,

Like labels.

We were too young.

Too unaware of the words

They said.

If only, for our mind’s sake, Continue reading The Children’s Way

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beti

Maa makes a salan for each son

because they like different things

 

but the beti needs to learn to make her own food

kyun ki uski age pe shaadi aur bachey hotey hain

 

larka jaan per be jaiy, jaise bi rai

maa ankh band karke osko kabi kuch boley gi nahi

 

beti aik galti kare

uski izzat zaban per aja ti hai

 

the sons can go out and party get a girl pregnant

but they’ll still be able to move on and find a good girl to marry

 

the girl stays out a bit later than 8 pm

might wear a t-shirt,

and the whole mohalla is calling her a slut, saying she’s no longer a virgin

 

truth is

we don’t love our girls as much as our sons

 

truth is

you have failed us girls

 

truth is

us girls are tired of walking on eggshells

of being thrown around, walked all over

and expected to have sabr

 

kehte hain betiyaan sab se bari rehmat hain

toh aaj hum ko kyun torey ho

 

Picture Credit: @thepakistanimarthastewart

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A dance in the dark

Now I find myself dancing
to the frantic beat of my heart
at the threshold of judgment
desperate for a figment of
something positive, warm
but realise that I’m shackled
by cynical negations, galore.
Here demons wear masks
of noblemen and kings
and brandish their swords
Continue reading A dance in the dark