There's something honest in hurting enough to display your brokenness like an archive.
There's a wooden fence in the backyard that leads to a small pond; frogs croak, the southern sun pulverizes our skin. I used to imagine sneaking down to that pond late at night, slitting my wrists. I was suicidal, I'm not sure if I am anymore. It played out so beautiful in my mind- almost how Ophelia drowned.
Water lilies cover my dying face, metaphorical really. Water is dyed a maroon color and my skin has the life drawn from it. This was the summer my family welcomed a new child and all I could do was devote time to my demise.
Hallunicuated hearing my mother's dissapointed words scold me.
She's a ghost and I still wanted to trade places. My father got re-married, I lost even more of my mind. Hysterical tears and maniacal nights with the same songs on repeat. I tore through my skin like a dying garden, hoped for death like someone with nothing. I have so much; my father, my home, my sisters. I felt I didn't have anyone.
Found solace on my skin-
writing novels, not stories.
Brick surface, room on the right where I built walls with no desire to fight. Large window with the vast world outside, but I never participated. I'd weep until, the sun awoke. I'd swear the moon warned me to quiet down.
Bled so much,
I could have saved several lives
instead, of trying to take my own.
how people grow up
why people change
who people become
what people fall for
where people find home
if love even exists
these happened to me
one at a time
it is still ongoing
it is inevitable
you pull through
you get a grip
you kick and move
you start swimming
home is the place where you belong that gives you warmth and strength,
a place that you long when you've been gone too long, or even just a while,
but sometimes, home isn't a building with walls and doors and windows,
because for me, it's you
the fireplace that gives me warmth is in your eyes,
your smile strengthens me like the sound sleep after a long day,
and your touch is like the warm shower that makes me forget after the tiring things,
it's you, my home is you.
For a very long time;
I have wandered too far;
and maybe even wondered too long.
For a very long time;
I have been alone;
longing for a place I can call home.
Now that I met you;
and have spent time with you;
I feel that my life have become anew.
I have felt the warmth;
of a place I can call my own;
a person so familiar;
I’d thought of calling him home.
My dear, home is wherever you are;
so will you come with me?
And take me wherever you go?
Because I don't want to leave home.
I don't want to leave you.
I came in naive and unassuming
My life in bags and eyeballs gleaming.
Sun poured through window grills,
flushing the room in a rich gold fill;
And that's all it took for me to embrace
this 10 square feet of snuggle space.
But the room grew generous beyond its capacity,
accommodating all flavours of friends and familiarity;
And I learnt things here about my own disposition,
such as my lack of appetite for solitude & isolation.
The mirror saw me through my worst,
While the cupboard held my secrets closed;
And the glowing stars have, many a times,
watched me through nightmare cries.
The balcony made me believe in magic
Over sunset chai or a Midnight cigarette.
It mothered my plants despite my carelessness
And fostered friendships with unknown faces.
It showed me colours I'd never seen
of the cinematic sky and my own self-esteem.
And now that the moment to leave has arrived
A chunk of my heart aches to stay behind
for there's so much more these walls need to hear
and so many more nights that I want to spend here;
Between these sheets stained with love and Chefkraft sauces,
Between those stand-up specials and alternate sex poses.
Between ukulele evenings and fried egg mornings,
Between gusts of wind that stole all our cloth pins.
Between Oscar nominee films that I slept through
Between 4am phone calls and the sound of that flute.
Between washing dishes and power cut storms,
Between tangerine showers and hugs so long;
Between gin & tonic and the dance of bare feet;
Between folding clothes and deciding what to eat.
Between conversations that ended at dawn
Between agarbatti smells and deliveries from Amazon.
Between making plans for imaginary tomorrows;
Between the creases of unironed shirts I borrowed.
Between food care packages and the smell of mutton curry.
Between the echoes of kisses and forgotten worries.
Five hundred days of three zero two
Flew often too fast, often too slow
Enough at times, to fill a book or a century
And sometimes too ephemeral to last that fickle memory.
I wish that I could live in my own house
Where my brother's and sisters live
Where my birth giver and male parental unit call home
A few things stand in my way
The emotional disconnection gives a slight separation
The abusive love and controlling tongues play a part
The creepy old man who touches me in ways no one should
Definitely is a big part.
I mean when you got your Father card did you skim over the fine print where is says protection? Did you forget your glasses so you couldn't see that it said, "must go to a loving home"?
I mean these are all technicalities.
I'm not. I'm your daughter.
It sounds weird the way it rolls off of my tongue. The metallic after taste, like I've just been slapped. Daughter. Something doesn't seem right.
I mean why have a home where you feel loved, supported and valued. When you can live in a place that devalues all that you are, for all that you stand against.
the chill of the early morning
thaws within your sprawl
as you lock me tight with an angled thigh
and delicate paw
while your chest expands rhythmically
and your breath is slow
i nestle in tightly
as you refuse to let go
while my thoughts stir
a wake from hibernation
i concede to life horizontal
a stroke to your side
a moan and a sigh
one fleeting moment
as we stare, eye to eye
then your lip curls upward
and your eyes slant
as i take in the gaze
of the only girl i'll ever want
when i hear the word home
i dont think of a brick house
or the furniture that lie inside
i think of my sisters and my mom
i think of my cat waiting behind the door
i think of poem book in my purse
i think of my best friend
i think of my young renegade jacket
i think of my collection of concert tickets
when i think of home
i think of the people and things that make me happiest
i think of the things that connect to my favorite memories
i connect home to comfort and happiness
i dont connect it with brick walls and broken furniture
it may bring safety but it doesnt bring me joy
and home to me means joy