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Amara Numen Aug 2020
in a light
full of blast
in a part
of pull apart
the as a result of this sorry
of the story
I served
then dragged
became becoming.
Kelsey Banerjee Aug 2020
stove juts out
stuns in sixty-year-old kitchen
shiny, electric,
everyone marvels
so much better than the gas stove
as if the functions are not the same.
I, misled, maybe
have no newfound love
for false hearths
and work dens masquerading as homes.
we never knew food
just kosher salt, pepper, ketchup
a dash of rosemary
yet our curves labored, steamed hours
heaped over knotted heels
at the end of the workday
you were so tired
and we ate whatever you could manage.

I desired to taste liberty,
imagined I had it on a slow burner
simmering with
coriander seeds, cumin, cinnamon
chili powder bleeding into broth
parsley finely cut
into slivers for garnish grew
dry in my hands,
waiting.

Somehow I ended up
back in that same kitchen
a dream at my lips,
hungrier than before.
Another reminder that if you want a free ARC of my poetry collection, just write me a message. :-)
Kelsey Banerjee Aug 2020
she serves silence,
it lies on the tongue
like ash.
her quiet cuts
jagged,
tears the hem of my heart
I unravel,
and she throws my words away
with burnt-black peppers.
tranquil Aug 2020
A blank sheet of paper loses it’s beauty
Once it’s been written upon
After which it’s worth
is decided by the ink smeared upon it

Our society talks about equality
And values the beauty of limitless possibilities
but judges something
As soon as it is quantified
In beauty, price and usefulness

An equal world is one
Where a blank sheet
And a masterpiece
Hold the same value
For they’re both beautiful in their own way
Mb Aug 2020
Everything that's broke
And the flower buds which bloom,
leave it to the breeze 💛
Everything that is broken or bleeding in human, the sorrow element of life and also the good side of life is represented by the flower buds which bloom. Even its broken or beautiful that doesn't matter as everything is left to nature. And go with the flow of life.
Kelsey Banerjee Jul 2020
sun dries my hair
thick and sopping with
dahi, coconut oil,
on the terrace
I peer into the endlessness
of all four directions and
the summer haze
does not halt my lack of
hesitation, inhibition.
lokhi hands release the robe and
I embrace the morning sun.
marty Jul 2020
how bad i wish skin was easier to cut, for bones to be easier to break, for blood to be easier to drain.
i realize it is pretty easy, as long as that’s what you desire, but still there’s something that’s holding me back from those desires.

once i’ve finally gave in to these desires i wonder what’s keeping me from cutting deeper. seeing blood flow is my current desire, yet i wonder why my wish won’t be granted, as all i see is a scratch. a simple scratch is not what i desired, yet it is all i’ve gotten so far. how deep into this endless rabbit hole must i go in in order to get what i want? at this point i ask myself wether this is my true desire or not.

in the third act i am back again. a new desire has made its way into my mind screaming and it is begging to be heard. merging with my soul, mind and body, i find myself as an hybrid of these desires that now compose my whole existence and guide my life. it does not revolve around me now, as it never should have been. even though crying is what my soul yearns for, my body won’t give in. it is as it wants me to grieve more and more, until I just give up and go one way or the other. it’s so loud, it hurts my head and my body is shaking. my lungs just can’t take it. I just need to let go, but I can’t and that’s even more painful than a blade running through my skin, cutting the tissue, craving to hit an artery, make it all stop, to enjoy that brief moment of euphoria where I beat everything that was holding me back and make it to my freedom. that sweet journey that took all I had and crushed every one of my hopes and dreams, that horrible journey that made me think there was a way out.

everyday i wake up to a reality that i’m not willing to face.
Kelsey Banerjee Jul 2020
two years
she plunges into frigid
waters.
do you remember
what they used to call us?

loved, maybe,
but only by those
who misunderstand it.

she waits
unshaven, unwashed,
exhausted
from her past,
for her future.
I'm currently offering readers a chance to read my upcoming poetry collection, Shy Anger. Send me a message if you are interested.
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