mayday_calls

दिल्ली, मेरा शहर नहीं, एक साज़िश है शायद, दिल्ली में बात नहीं होती, रफ़्तार होती है, दिल्ली में हवा साफ़ नहीं होती, अफ़वाह होती है, दिल्ली में बुनियाद नहीं होती, गवाही होती है, दिल्ली में चुनावों में रात नहीं होती, नुमाइश होती है, दिल्ली में वुसअत नहीं होती, सल्तनत से नेहरू तक की याद होती है, दिल्ली में फ़रियाद नहीं होती, बस पुलिस तैनात होती है, दिल्ली में लफ्फाजी नहीं होती, सड़कें होती है, दिल्ली में शैली नहीं होती, क्रांति होती है, दिल्ली, मेरा शहर नहीं, एक साज़िश है शायद। ~ चेतना 🌻

i have lost the  moisture of  the edges of  my eyes,  i lie and  weep beneath  such a brown cloud,  an act of love; that pink shirt i  wore at school, is untouched now, a symbol of despair in my house, a single thing- a matchstick and  sudden ignition,  what if it catches  and singes  my  body hair in doubt, i scream but drywalls absorb  my every sound,  it kills me but  my  depression   does  not count, i gaze at some  mystical power to  learn if i have been hollowed-out; " fuck my mouth!" - chetna 🌻 

if clock is a circle, we run in tandem; if it is a straight line, your july after my  MAYhem, locked in some orbit, we are a chance when  the dial takes the spin, but landing on a narrow seam, then your skin touches mine; suspended breaths in the gap like 11:59 leans that one gasp into 12:00-      being pushed onto      the road where      celestial empyrean      runs off the line and      we see a conflated      moon phase in sunshine;    the clock overtakes, monsoons breaking across dry summers, people move on, i still  permit you to my heaven, "two six two seven, a silent confession." - chetna 🌻 

frost before the snow, never felt this cold; preemptively closed- this gamble of twists  and targeted turmoil,    at the request of     decaying teenage,    or the victim of     shielding macrophage,    rumoured instincts-    drawing a younger girl     into his holding cage,           the first clean break           comes when we swear,           the second one when            lives are bottled up            at the front and rear; october boys did not talk about the fall, october boys knew well to withhold love in control, october boys. - chetna 🌻 

in the theory of a hungry child, i was the piece of bread, he could ever touch feeling short of fights, a story of portions, never the whole- in  the confinement cell, devouring and feeding myself malice in bites,  in the theory of a  hungry child, i was breeding the milk, he was chewing fire, scattered flour,  another scandal in the quickest cold hour, sensing his broken belly, i caused the famine, in the theory of a  hungry child, i wish  i had become a glass of airèn wine- oh, to be tasted; not just kept down, handpicked even if the sparkle fades out, to be sipped throughout, in the theory of a  hungry child, he saw the hunger, i stayed starving like a bereft child. - chetna 🌻   

every morning i feel  cursed for existing, i swallow my tornadoes, and call it risk aversing, putting my nervous system under fire, here i have nobody  who is scared of my asymmetric smile, i put garlands over  my bargaining power, smiling in cruelty and i'm breathing sour, cleaning everybody's  closets and shelves here i have nobody  who  handles my  tears  with care, i draft eulogies in my days and fraying nights, is it feminine or divine? why should i not bury deep that haunted child? trusting my intuition, i feel now i must die, here i have nobody  who prays to my God "this storm must expire!" - chetna 🌻 

i am waiting for  the Sun, sitting at the bar, the beer is coloured darker, i am recalling you now, "just fix the way you show your rage, i'll love you harder!"  i am trying to swallow this clash, t o swallow this glass and ash,  i am talking in my head, "rage is the price of  feeling and loving you far too much!" i am tracing the  patterns of your  freckles and jawline  against my face,  "sir one  more pour  please, he t hinks i  am due for a rampage!" i am waiting for  the Sun, sitting at  the bar, neon-buzzed  humming in my teeth, i am convincing my heart, "my anger is a weapon that turned into a martyr, darling, i will greet  the Sun unbroken, even if  you promise to love  me any harder!" - chetna 🌻 

there's an attic inside my ribcage, you know, where the light, to this  date,  has never arrived, i was a charmer on the  surface but  a belittled  town on the  inside,  my friends and family  feared that soon i would subside into  a classic  and counterfeit delight, i guess this was true, as now i have a thousand  reasons to be left behind, the quality of being  the smallest in the room, i like how they question me, and dread that whatever i  answer turns out to be true, shaking my feet on floorboards, reviving my ink, i assumed  arms did not work in cold wars, sealing my lips, gazing  at  my falling kinships, i presumed i was nicer while harboring their silence and silts, they ratified some peace but i am still decoding their receipts, inhabiting colours of the summer  i am the thriving winter inside it. - chetna 🌻 

i inherited deception, losses and the salt, from the oceans  which cast trust in dark, the world, so cruel, indifferent, burnt-out, it heated up so fast, so i persuaded my  porcelain puberty to pay a currency at last, metabolic midnights, i ripped off my heart, i still wonder why i  chased him just to  lick the taste of tart, he peeled off the derma of a fifteen year old, such a nice art, i still wonder why i  boasted of fantasies like a wasted craft, later in the numbing, frozen aftermath, i smuggle this damn wreckage, dump all this rusted ballast in my present bloodbath, eight feet above the ground, eight years under the  earth,  what a specimen of  suffering and i still  sleep holding a scalpel. - chetna 🌻 

pitiless purgatory, is the pain i get when watching   pornographies, fuck you man, now i press my pulses  to check if i ever overcome this paralysis, i often picture Plath, she was presented with poisoned probabilities, her teenage arithmetic was spilled  like the  youth's cold serum, was she being branded an eternal psychopath? well her husband  called her at the dining  table, smashed her with  name of his mistress  and dark labels while clutching her thighs, i tell her stories to the father of my future child, after he dresses me back in my shirts and panties, she bled through a  miscarriage but her husband was  coercing her bed to  produce another child, fuck you man, one boy once set the same snare and a world  serving me lust and lies,  peddling his paper paradise, but my man had a string i know, he reeled me back before he even arrived, i am the safest now, spared from being crucified, fuck you man, but she committe...