Claim my burden but never

offer your shoulder

to confide, 

to cry,

But you have no tears to spare.

Trying to eat the slice of pie

I spent hours baking,

you spent seconds eating.

Those peaches were freshly picked!

Bathed in bicarb! 

I scrubbed the dirt

until it was nothing but

another piece of myself

for you to ******.

I do not swallow sweetness, 

I choke on copper,

throat bursting to the brim

with pennies-

the same pennies you offer

in penance 

for the burden of lead that

nooses my neck. 

You wear it by choice;

by Gold, 

by Glory,

believing our blood is the same drop split in two.

Though it is proven to be yours for the taking,

you will be tasked with breaking each 

frozen finger, 

forced to pry your prize from

my bruised palms.

Please weave your
nerves along
My bones,
my marrow is
your supper.
Please wrap your
never ending
absoluteness around
My eternity,
my endlessness is
your reward.

Suppose I am just blue.
pale, hardly replicable.
Neither black; nor white but
lacking saturation
nevertheless.

I tell them to watch a movie- that one when the sun sets like aloe on their scalded skin, that one where after sunset, the guy kills himself. 

But I don't tell them that part, I simply lather the lotion thicker, suffocate their burn and boast about the healing powers of cinema I so humbly wish to share.

In honesty, there is little need for conviction as I so kindly spread love on their wound, proposing the perfect solution, a comforting press to the chest.

On condition, they are instructed to watch alone; travel to Ankara and snuggle beneath cloudy blue skies. They must take extra care. And under no circumstances should they tamper with the blooming blisters- they should let the summer breeze do all the work. 

They trust me, pathetically, even as the hours wane on, even as my waxy ointment melts to oily paraffin and slips far, far away from the wound. 

I doubt that they even notice, but I know that with five minutes to spare, all hope of healing will be held out of reach- especially as my soothing facade shatters beneath blinding strobes, as my fibs fade and salt sprinkles their skin with the promise of a permanent scar, fragile tissue that will surely wither with the sun for an eternity to come. 

The credits roll and so do the tears, until their cheeks are so stained, so branded with hollowness that all left to do is howl out for the end to near.

Now, they feel like I do, and we will suffer a lifetime of sorrow in unity. It makes me feel a little better.

I was wedged between blue leather, scribbling axes into the shape of question marks; and you were laid on blue woven wicker, snoring and many miles away.
Now, I am sinking into fluffy blue polyester; and you are sleeping on a table carved of icy blue steel.
It is strange, isn't it?
I did not know you then, I will never know you now.

Can I kiss you beneath the Chestnut Trees? Capture you with my ancient branches, press you into my breast?
Will you curl nearer? Wind your roots with my own, Welcome me with dampened Spring soil? Shall we stay right here? Forever? Puffing in dusty pollen until Summer seeds sprout through our brittle cracks? Could we just? Should we just?

So, what happens now?
Now that it is all over.
Is there hope for us yet?
Yet? It is plain to see.
See that it is not so. It is not so.
So, what happens now? Now that it is all over.

They say I am like her,
and her,
but that is
blasphemous,
backhanded as
my sorrow must
bleed through.

Cannot make it
pretty,
there is no way
to make it
tender.
Cannot wish it into
a petal, a leaf,
there is no way
to warm the
sun.

They say I am like her,
but she is in
the dirt buried by
her own
hands-
and her hands
too!
She cried straight
into the
crypt.
Diagnosed with
the
disease of
death.

Do they also say
they hope
I end
like her,
or her,
too?

Goraiya
by Pragya Bhagat

The Hindi word for sparrow is goraiya
It skips across my tongue and lingers in my mouth like the aftertaste of toffee
Goraiya
I like that word
If I had to draw a picture of a sparrow with sound
My word would sound like goraiya

You tell me they travel in flocks
That they like bathing in the summer
By hopping off a table and skidding in water
You tell me that the males are pretty but the women run the show

They don’t chirp among strangers
These sparrows
They avoid eye contact and move only if you’re very
Very
Still

You tell me about the time you tried to catch them
With a rope and stick and some rice
Sometimes they didn’t let you nap in the day time
Because their symphony was louder than your dreams

How I see the sparrow, you say
Depends on who I am
A child will play their games
An old man will listen to their music
So I wonder what I’ll see
In this mirror of a bird

She makes eye contact if you’re still
Because that’s how she knows you’re listening
She lets herself be caught
So that she has something to fight for
Her favourite part of the day
Is when she learns a new word
That skips across her tongue
And lingers like the aftertaste of toffee

She flicks from puddle to puddle
Sharing her words with those building dictionaries of their own
Of course she won’t let you nap in the day time
Because the sun is out
The trees have cracked their knuckles
And today’s the day she sings her symphony

Some stories aren’t written but felt
They melt into your skin like a mother’s smile
Some stories are so simple
They open windows inside us we didn’t know still opened
And all it takes is a word that sounds like its picture

You tell me that sparrows don’t chirp among strangers
We are no longer strangers

Synesthesia - Red
by Kashi

Quickening red sad emotions well as I stumble
Speechless until red becomes the rage
Quickening rage thundering heart takes over
Till the release of tornado leaving destruction
Along its wake