My Scars

My life is a summed total of my scars.

A round shallow ditch,

Dark brown,

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.

Discoloured stripes

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.

Chipped corners

On a beating heart

That caught itself on sharp words,

And a tongue that learned

That retaliation

Hardly hastens healing.

And thus goes on,

Each scar a story

And they write the book that I am.

Nomophobia

What if the solace I find

In technology

Is this new paradigm,

This capacity,

Of passing people without really

Looking at them

Textbooks

I wish textbooks would sprout wings

And breathe fire

That the fine print would twirl

Waltzing their way to me

And let me hear

Not silence

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.

Afloat

Afloat

Aloft

And to dust.

Fluid thoughts

Stuck in stained spaces

Trapped intentions

Cobwebs of comprehension

Leaky emotions

Dripping, seeping, stinking

Tip-tap

An isolated attempt at retribution

A splat on the floor

Welling to a whirlpool

Of silent surrender

And in the midst

Lie

I

Afloat

Aloft

Turning to dust.