A mother's lap, all downy flesh
Or a bird cushioned in the nest
Softness, light, and feather-white
We all seek our respites.

Warm bathwater and soothing scent
Sand, sun, and sea perlescent
In lover's beds and lover's rosy minds
We all seek our respites.

All beings crave some sweet affection
The relief of a loving connection
We seek home and it's delights
We all seek our respites.

We deserve love so we hunt
For feelings, closeness and trust
But do we really all live for light;
We all seek our respites.

What happens when we only hate
Ourselves, our bodies, and our weight
Can we allow relaxation and smile
We all seek our respites.

Some feel unequal to pleasure
For them, pain is to be treasured
More comfort in screams than sighs
We all seek our respites.

Some beings have to hurt to feel
When only pain and blood is real
A friend, your razorblade at night
We all seek our respites.

When the brain can be so cruel
Deprivation, denial, and their rules
Don't feel wrong but beautifully right
We all seek our respites.

For those of us in isolation
Undeserving of self-preservation
It's easier to suffer than to fight
We all seek our respites.

*© Tara India.

Do you think i look pretty
Just for your attention?
Sorry but if you threaten me,
My skirt should not be mentioned

We are both human and I
Don't wolf-whistle at your ****;
I have some decency and won't
Catcall as you walk past

Whatever I wear is solely
For me and not for you,
I don't deserve attack or
****, or any kind of abuse

If I want to show my legs,
Then that is just fine
And if I like this dress, your
Assault shouldn't cross my mind

Even if I walked naked,
I wouldn't be asking for it
Besides I was always told:
"If you've got it flaunt it!"

Why should I take steps to
Repel you and protect myself,
When the real question is
Why can't you control yourself?

*© Tara India.

the sparkle of your dove-grey eyes
is lost in those tears; do not cry,
for nothing good happens at four a.m.,
nestle, wait, the sun will rise again.

star-spangled blackness is only
worthwhile when it shrouds dreams,
so wipe your cheeks and dredge up
a smile; find some self love

even if it is only in shreds --
I promise you're not better off dead.
it only seems so in heavy night,
star-child, you are far too bright

to let yourself be crushed or lost:
though easy, defeat bears a cost,
so pull up a laugh, and those covers;
do not weep for past or present lovers.

do not give your mind over to pain,
believe me, you are not to blame
for all the wrongs upon this world,
you are no god, just a heavenly girl,

so don't give up; soon the morning
will rise, a new hope is dawning
every day: will you seize this one
and shed the fear of what's to come?

please ignore as the voices wail
that you were only born to fail;
they're liars, with no life but
what you give them, don't give up.

so go to bed, comfort is allowed,
tuck yourself in, darling i'm proud
of you; one more day you've survived
and against all odds you're so alive.

*© Tara India.

the hills roll; they mirror the clouds
that lazily scud across the sky,
muffling the sun, tearing wisps
into the powder-blue above my eyes

I am trapped inside, grass growing faster
than I will ever be free; time passing
in shadows, gasps, and pulsing hours:
bruise-black night will seem everlasting

when it comes to hold me once again,
inside a house, inside my mind I decay
and I rot, waiting for something, some
unknown glory in the light of day

but day breaks and burns me once more:
the sun too strong for my pale skin,
trees swaying, and I envy them;
I long to emulate their calm within

I am a storm-cloud which cannot soar,
my precipitation weighs me down
I long to fly, everything itches like the
scars littering my skin; my solitary frown

reflects the curvature of the fields,
meandering dandelion-speckled, corn-rowed
they become the entire worlds of
grass-chewing cows, horses alone

we watch over them, I dream through panes
of glass keeping me from fresh air;
I long to feel its breath, soak in
the sun; weave flowers in my hair.


*© Tara India.

and when she falls
she might break like glass;
a winter's gale could
raze her to ash

she walks in summer,
with floral eyes
that wilt far too often
to be any real disguise

her skin too perforated
to remain whole each year;
bury her in November,
to rise vampiric and clear

at easter, nail her and
her fears to wooden boards,
so she can pass the heatwave
and not sit distraught

if she should tumble
falter, catch her breath,
remember it is autumn:
she hasn't many left

every decade a phoenix:
flame-born and alive,
but a few years on drowned
by an ocean inside.


*© Tara India.