For there’s much more to remember.
perhaps the walk that still embers.
The distinct message at the first sight.
and pin bent at the other end of the road.
Waited for the travellers to haunt at night.
when the moon with a smiley face to bright.
A stroll to remember where one walked,
with hands and hands together at ride.
The longest ride with no where to strife .
The pages had a crack of fork.
The sweetest song played once at night .
Today no longer serves the lost pride.
There is an unread scribblings,
at the frame on front hall.
The dried flowers on the wall lay,
there hung by their choice.
The spiders web too written its sign.
The haunted one by the choice.

GEETHA JAYAKUMAR.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

pain’s funny.
laughs a humorless laugh, entering through the doorway
without a knock, without ringing the bell—
a familiar visitor in the hotel of myself.

it has learned my name,
learned where it ought to reside.
easy for it to slip in, even undisguised.

i welcome it, however.
often, i bring it over to a pedestal:
period cramps causing knots in my stomach,
getting waxed after a month,
or even falling over and knocking my head against a cupboard.
familiar. honest. raw. unfiltered.

it sits behind my ribcage, a permanent guest.
some days, in my head.
often, in the form of a heavy numb in my chest.

why is it there—
what form, what holiday brought it this time?
the questions remain unanswered.

sometimes it carries a reason.
other times, it’s just to remind me of old memories—
like applying my favourite perfume.

i could create a list,
but it’s hard to remember
when it’s visiting my central library
of all that i carry.

i can’t remember how it began.
like an old friend,
one night i met it in disguise.

thought i could trust.
i let myself flicker.
it changed my defaults.
and i found some plain, old comfort.

perhaps the wrong kind.
perhaps the wrong thing to do—
chasing after something that hurts
or brings it to visit me the same way it used to.

now, however, it resides,
living right behind my eyes.

sometimes, if i look too hard,
i can almost imagine its presence:
dark.
clouding.
a kind of grey.
ready to hold my hand.

having grown up—
a monster turned old friend,
almost a lover.

i wear it like a second skin.
and on days i can’t even drink,
it slips its hand in my own,
brings me up, pushes me to smile,
whispers, you have to pretend.

and i do.
i do.
and i keep doing so.

support of one kind,
accepting me with my own mind.

some days, it feels like metamorphosis almost—
a change of forms.
on some days, as a memory.
other times, as a memento.
like dowry.

never concluding.
doesn’t even let me stay in delusions.

creates imagery so beautiful,
i’m yet to believe it isn’t just me—
dignified, personified as the midnight hour.

i’m no sun, or the moon.
maybe i could be a star?

the blood drips from my fingers
meets the blood on his palm
i hear the voice that whispers
behold- here i am

perhaps it isn’t right
but i needed God not in hindsight
nor footprints in the sand
I simply needed your hand

I love you like a wind-
That never breezed
My warmth for you is like a winter
That wouldn't get too cold

A love so kind and caring
Like a bird spreading its wings
And a dog running free
Perhaps a bee that keeps its stings

I love the sun a little more-
When you're around to watch
I love the pouring rain
Or the stars I cannot touch.

I wanna go camping,
I wanna bring my lizard.
I wanna smoke tons of ****,
As my joints swell in a blizzard.
I never want to explain myself,
To anyone ever again.
I want someone to truly need me,
To truly be my friend.