My life is a summed total of my scars.
A round shallow ditch,
That shines like a misplaced nose ring
On an otherwise uneventful face
Talks of an impatient teenage hand
That picked at a chickenpox scab
And two small uneven mounds of flesh
One on my hand,
The other on my belly,
Corroborate the story.
A smoothed patch
Of hardened skin on a knee
Acts as the reminder
Of a yellow divider on a busy bus station,
A littered ground that broke my fall
And the hands that picked me up.
On a thumb
And a forefinger that tingles on touch
Where enthusiasm made a mark
On the amateur cook,
And dishes enjoyed proudly
With fingers wrapped in ice.
On a beating heart
That caught itself on sharp words,
And a tongue that learned
Hardly hastens healing.
And thus goes on,
Each scar a story
And they write the book that I am.
What if the solace I find
Is this new paradigm,
Of passing people without really
Looking at them
Continue reading “Nomophobia”
I wish textbooks would sprout wings
And breathe fire
That the fine print would twirl
Waltzing their way to me
And let me hear
But tempestuous battle cries
Invigorating the very sense of my self
From skin to bone, through flesh and blood,
So that I may glance and take it all in
With bated breath;
Words lining up, marching on
And dare not stop till the end of war..
I wish textbooks would take me far
And keep me there, keen and bright,
But alas, they pick up the hum of the night
Unbroken lullabies that bid my eyelids
To meet and never part,
As I leave to seek the dragons and battles
In my dreams.
And to dust.
Stuck in stained spaces
Cobwebs of comprehension
Dripping, seeping, stinking
An isolated attempt at retribution
A splat on the floor
Welling to a whirlpool
Of silent surrender
And in the midst
Turning to dust.