Scarlet letter and blotted fingers

Scarlet letter and blotted fingers;

A paper and it's art across the wrist;

Trust is only textbook:

A mere convention like patriarchy;

But not quite, is it?

While one flourished, the other-

Well, Bacon couldn't with his epigrams

Convince.

A diamond, sure is;

And I had been greedy.

I fell for the aqua eyes, which

Under the sun, hid a patch of forest,

Under the dim candle or

The red luminescent in my apartment

Revealed some browns worth mining;

Quite a hidden paradise,

I assumed.

Huh! only infested with rodents;

And I joined the club, only

My teeth were blunt.

And I donated my eyes to your prior.

All my clothes are burnt-

You've worn them all.

I might even borrow one from a serpent,

But then I would be wearing you.

I was no Holmes, I didn't want to be

I simply wanted one HOME

I found that in your sandalwood musk

In your.. your.. You.

I found the truth and

Pearl is dented and now I prefer-

Flowers...

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Behind locked doors and closed windows: 2

I may be cursed I sure am cursed- why question it I swallowed both the pills The blue and the pink I am cursed in twos Ed and Ele cursed me both For they thought the other forgot And now they look at me With confusion, pity, and pride I am purple- I am a bruise I broke her spine to make my way through I am my daddy's lil princess I fight his authorial voice, trespass when I cannot I am my mummy's lil warrior I bruise their body and mind I bruise their bones and brains I bruise and bruise and bruise and bruise and bruise and bruise and bruise and bruise and bruise and bruise and- I didn't intend to though I didn't choose to become a demon The death I once evaded The death I once touched and escaped The death I once mocked and cheered victorious Is the death I want- need I wanted her to tell me she'd choose me over the spine I wanted him to tell me he'd choose me over his pride I wanted to be told that I would be chosen over all They couldn't even build the ho...

Heteroglossia

A demigod with a head of two- O ne sings hymns, the other screams- Two minds, two voices with an eye each- One that resides in me. Heteroglossia is a term, coined by the Russian philosopher and literary critic Mikhail Bhaktin, in the literary spectrum to denote the juxtaposition of more than one discourse. I feel it quite personally in my mind where there is the “heavens and the earth colliding”. I know not what this illness is but there are voices inside my head, precisely two, quite eloquent in their declamation over a particular situation that calls for sensitivity and sensibility. Both with disparate judgements, one impregnates my mind with such vile thoughts, suspicion and paranoia; while the other voice fights for its life trying to reason out with ME, pleading me to ignore the former. It creates such conundrum and chaos, my palms involuntarily pressed against my ears to mute the deafening voices; limbs shaking, eyes tearing and my ears searing. The negative always potent and I g...

The moth spreadeagled on my dirty lampshade

The lamp in dungeon, Scalpel and a surgeon; The stone wall closing in, The sun in a glass caged in. Let me out! Let me out! The Lord of the moth is here. A dirty yellow spotted rear. I shrink in my armchair, Deluded as if in its lair Captured, Tortured, Smothered. I am not insane, Yet in a prison. Let me out! Let me out. Shut out the fire Of love, of needs dire. Close the blind Draw the curtains in hind. Lock the doors, Cock the guns. Repair the hinges, Prepare the trenches. The fiend is here, Beelzebub I fear. Doctor! Doctor! Don't dissect my receptor; The moths shall escape, Their shadows untam'd. Abysmal eyes like trypes adjoined Crowding the walls; Motionless; waiting to pounce, To fuse out the light Flickering in my sight. A billion wings alert To tear my flesh apart, Lest I feed on crumbs of hope , Cuff the fleeing light with rope. They be burning into ashes As they chip at my fleshes. Dead though I be, not them; Drunk in the life I made, Riseth from the ashes they are Ma...

Behind locked doors and closed windows: 1

I find myself in that dark abyss Cruel, malefic, and conscious I know not what I'm writing The purpose or the reason There's no escape route visible Clamouring for breath Screams muffled into whimpers My head hurts— A lot Oh it hurts, it hurts, it hurts I haven't seen love If it's meant to be seen I haven't felt love If it's meant to be felt I haven't tasted love If it's meant to be tasted What is love? I heard, the first glimpse into this rare jewel Is given by the primary caregivers I know not who they are Are they those two bodies— The ones screaming behind the screen The air heavy with a charge That doesn't feel positive Is this love? Then I have ample I see them while I play with Jojo and Mojo It's always those dramatic flailing of arms The crude expressions- theatrical They call me expressive Probably got it from my mother They call my articulation grave Probably got it from my father They see me debating on stage Say I have it in me- a gif...

Mute

They say I am good at speaking- a prolific orator, an intelligent debater, a skilled narrator. But why do I- fail to articulate emotions, as simple as a lamb? why must they coil up in a maze, so the phrases lose their way; Liberated from the labyrinth too late. Why do I, stumble, stutter, sigh; can’t communicate in fluent currents- like a river or pour heavy like rain? Why do I-

Haggard Heart

In the perilous drains something afloat Dancing-drowning in the buoyant force. It shimmered neither Nor glimmered like crystal But like the Indian cousin, coal. Powdery and flaky skin it had not But possessed a flesh like this author abroad. Wild-roses, primroses pinched their noses The wild stench malevolent Of charred flesh in an infernal broil. The bulbous mass afloat, tarred, Heart of all infamy, Stayed affixed 'gainst the gallant stream, The ominous smell summoning the sins. The author thus bent to untangle The mossy tentacles piercing the beating flesh In sync with the personal pulse much abhorred Of a heart guillotined. The author cupped the discarded in their palm, Desirous of impregnating their hollow abode. Like a flayed pig in a banquet hall The chest gaped with an inanimate hunger befall. But the nerves in the author's fingers Recoiled to paralysis- Dropping the slimy thumping mass and Saw it float to the abyssal depths, away.

Iridium

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Behind locked doors and closed windows: 1