Subtle Kaleidoscope

If I get three lives, I'll marry you in two And in the third - I'll be a struggling poet In a dim room  Trying to write down What colour would your eyes be? And why I know they will be dark brown  I'll be alone, but not lonely  I'll have a few friends, or many so In this life I'll be more bony I'll have bigger eye sockets, and eye balls: chapped lips and sunken cheeks  My favorite colour will be white : Like the shade of dying snow I'll spend my twenties, Thirties writing you  breaking 11 of my pens: Why my silent sobs feel loud Why the smell of blood reminds me of your mouth  Why the ghost under my bed warms my cold feet  With his warm hands  In this life I'll marry too And I'll make a husband regret me again I'll ask him to love me just to  Watch him fail ; He'll ask me to love him , just to see me in pain  I'll take pills and I'll do blood baths: Scrubbing my skin to bones just to stay sane  I'll sit in a dim room Looking for m...

  I read somewhere the act of peeling oranges for someone is considered love. I had mixed thoughts about it. I wondered if it was an excuse for not taking care of yourself or if it was being loved. I knew it was love, I guess it was love. But then I thought it was something the social media was feeding our system. A narrative being started to cause tension in relationships that were, before, perfectly fine. I couldn’t deny that it was an act of love, but I couldn’t justify why one needs to feel that. I am away from my home state in another state. People speak a different language and the whole premise of my life has just shifted. Away from people I love, away from people who love me. I knew, before I came here, that I needed to love and care for myself more this time because people who could care for me or fill my part weren’t here. Self-Love. Taking care of yourself. These days my city is burning, hotter than ever. Heat waves and everything. So, to fight that I bought my favou...

I think I like daisies, particularly the smaller ones, because they almost pass as weeds unlike other flashy flowers. . . . Not a flat, Not an apartment by road, Not my father's house, Not my man's A house of my own. With vases full of daisies, my pillow and my porch. Few books piled on the other slippers by the bed;  a coffee mug  on the table made of white oak With footprints of my wet feet , as I tiptoe from shower to my room A room with canopy of cream linen. And a garden of daisies I  grew on my own With post-it notes on refrigerator,  inside jokes. On the kitchen island: Some electricity bills, few grocery lists Loads of unfinished artsy canvas, and the many glasses I own Daises in the cozy corner with chairs that fold; Living room dancing on the rug, not too old A place I can rest, light as snow No one to guide, No one to scold No one to know, no one too cold Filled with daisies and Love A place,  effortlessly, my own.

"Come out and haunt me, i know you want me. " . . .  i peeled my own orange today, like i did yesterday too, i do my own laundry and i fold my clothes i write my poems, i tie laces of my shoe i put on two pair of socks because my feet are always cold i make my own coffee, i take some flowers home i count till five and i let breaths out, a few. i push me through, i pull myself from, i would peel pomegranates, if he ever asks me to   i wait, i waited , i am waiting i will so a perfect moment when i can lay down  on my bed, making sure no one catches me though "don't know, don't understand" never see it coming, but knows when it'll go an airplane passing over your head , and you'll know i ask you to let me peel your orange, "let me know" you let me know how sad the pith on my oranges make you   i will peel my own oranges i won't ask you to; i won't tell you to ask me again you owe me enough...

  I forget now and then, Anything that was said Some years by and i forget, An embarassed smile saying i forgot your birthday sneha But you know i saw that cake squashed I forget sometimes, I remember just to remind myself i forget you now I forget i used to remember everything once said, I really forgot your birthday too I forgot what you liked I forgot what the last text said I remember what i felt but i forgot what i read I forget your sister's name  Only know you by your brother's I forgot he never looked at me once, After the news spread I forgot who called me from your house that day I forgot what your mother said I forget if we were ever friends You didn't make me feel loved and neither did i Two kids trying to save themselves the best slice I forgot you had grief I forgot you wanted something you couldn't have And i blamed your mother As much as i blame mine I forget you loved her, As much as I love mine I blamed me , I forgot your friends told me, I couldn'...

  “…mind over matter is magic, I do magic…”   . . .   Yesterday I told this person, I like listening to these songs showing that one playlist we all have that we are so damm proud of in our hearts but still think twice before showing someone, because we wonder if that would be embarrassing, what if they hate these songs? We’ll be enemies? Poles apart? And what if they like them too, then what? True love? A match?   What if they neither hate it nor love it, then what will you do Sona? Then what? How will you decide if it’s a match made in heaven or if it’s an old vendetta our souls may have had? What will you do babe, if you can’t decide if it’s one extreme or the other? What if it’s neither nothing nor everything? What if it is meant to stay right in the middle with you having to balance it for the rest of your lives? “It’s just a playlist”, Sneha tells Sona. “You will be okay” the only embarrassing thing I feel about my playlist is how each song that I lik...