ln 2h
where is my indian
is it in the way i don't use my palms as a medium to transport rice into the back of my mouth
is it in the way my face turns gloomy at the sight of spice and curry
is it in my skin color that isn't as brown as you need it to be
is it in my eyebrows which aren't as bushy as per your requirements

is it in the way my tongue twists awkwardly as i say happy diwali
is it in the way amma is the most fluent piece of tamil i speak
is it in the way i didn't know how to recite the words at my grandpas funeral
is it in the way i cannot, for the life of me, name you another tamil movie besides chandramukhi?

or

is it in the religious classes i took up until age 12
is it in the ramayana epic that i learnt, age 8
is it in the sanskrit bhajans i was made to sing, not knowing what they meant, age 10
is it in knowing that ganesh is the remover of obstacles,
brahma, vishnu, shiva - the creator, the preserver, the destroyer

is it in the eyeliner drawing a bindi in between my eyes when i
head to the temple, to present myself as indian

where is my indian
is it on a checklist, is there a passing mark?
where is my indian
please tell me,
because i am tired of feeling like a foreigner in my own skin
T R S 19h
All the skin that covered
All the skin had died
After all I tried,
Turns out truth is how I lied

Living life in envelopes
Sitting on a couch
Over and In my lover
My heart is covered in a pouch
My story is written all over my skin, my poetry on these pages.
They both tell a story of my life at different ages.
They tell you about my soul and how I've never felt whole.
I judge myself harshly enough without people pointing fingers, how they have hurt me, and that damage still lingers
How much more will I have to break my bones,
How much more will I have to stay paralyzed,
How much more will I have to rip out my skin,
How much more will I have to claw out my heart,
Before someone comes and reincarnates me back into a healthy new born?
I’m used until I'm useless.
I turn the shower setting to the highest it can be,
presenting myself skin bared to the Devil or God, whoever listens best;
hoping that my flesh will fall off and with it all that I've done and do,
leaving me red and hurt but reborn, a fresh heart pumping in my chest.

Prayers unaswered, I crawl from the shower nothing but aching.
The weight of life a still a noose looped and drawn tight around my neck,
skin on fire but sapped of all my fight;
red and hurt but never anew, still nothing but the same, ever-repeating shell of a wreck.
~
Beneath my skin, they say I’m red.
Nothing’s sweeter then pure pled.
In corrosion I might sleep,
But the day comes, and it slips.
~
v Feb 17
I don't think I actually know what I look like.

I feel like pieces of me are these really ugly misshapen puzzle pieces I stitch together to make a cubist painting of what I could be. The mirror sometimes shows me a girl that's worth something but in pictures, I see a pair of arms, legs, eyes, ears, a nose, a body. Someone's body. Out of 380 photos I take, maybe there's one good picture, but that one picture usually doesn't even look like what I think I look like. Is that weird? Once in a while I catch a glimpse of myself and get a little startled because I don't look like what I thought I did... but then that moment passes and I turn back into the puzzle pieces that don't make sense, even to me. I then return to the cycle of piecing them together again, trying to figure out what the hell I actually look like.
spiral-whirl Feb 16
my heart is a shield, it shall make people heed before they fight into it,
my fists is a reliable weapon i do not wish to use, but i do,
my skin is where my weakness lies, where things can crawl all over it with or without my permission,
however my mouth is where i can strike those in the heart, its a canon i always use,
and my eyes?
my eyes.
one of the worst of them all.
my eyes can hold the warmest sun but also yield the coldest storm
Audrey Feb 16
Your arms were open like a book.
Dealt paper cuts but you don't look.
Your firm touch lingers on my skin.
As my heart trembles deep within.
Sorry I've been inactive. The next few poems will be ones that I wrote in rehab.

This poem is about my experiences being raped. He lured me in with "open arms" using lies and deception which lead to metaphorical "paper cuts". He ignored the pain he was causing me. I was very scared but he didn't stop.
Dripping
from the neck
to your collarbones
the sweat on your skin
meets your musky perfume
and leaves a scent
which makes my heart
run like a mad man.
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