mayday_calls

i inhale oxygen, sigh out cigarette  smoke, and it echoes the bile i've been keeping  in throughout,  i inhale oxygen, tokenize my lipids and cells,  but when i grieve,  hiding myself in velvet curtains, i sympathize with my beloved persons, but i actually mean,  "fuck them all" i inhale oxygen, psychic fears  cutting my thin, downtrodden skin, but when my  lungs heave out, they torture some fresh air, and i  again ache for the  cigarette smoke, i am still pure and perfect in this pollution, then i inhale oxygen. - chetna 🌻 

i have been phased  down to be called  crazy to clever to cruel in love, did i watch my  parents quarrel  too loud and harsh  or did i misread  their holy clause  for how people  ought to fall in love, or did i wonder and catalog some ounces  for the cardinal faith? i was leaving the city, he was standing far, rains crashed on  our heads, goodbye, i was reading my city, he came close to chart  why my heart beats fast, hello, rains crashed  so hard again, but in  our hearts, we got dissolved into some symbols of ourselves,  why do they lift their  fingers like i broke their cardinal faith? 23 years, holocaust, befriended my past, not a virgin, i love to have sex in the dark, i blurred their faith  by the ink of spark, perhaps the altar was never built for me, just the cold step stones where the martyrs grieve, so they laid down  their armour to cage  my hollow heartbeat,  did i wipe the cardina...

i dropped my tears  on that ancient paper absorbing some art, still i couldn't wash, so i colour my lips blue, i conceal that i feel somber and  insecure every day, operative sadness houses in my heart, my oblations and  thrills didn't last, they blunted the  knife still showed  me how well they camouflage, i still  look at the ceiling, try to forgive them  for the fucking past, but why don't they  now leave my blood  columns in waltz? i want to eat all my body parts, but  then how will they  kill my sonogram  gestating alone in the dark? - chetna 🌻 

i had an idea of  a dark repose,  but i nursed the  pulp of poppy,  and put it on my  glass tongue, smashed my  back in delusion, tilted my head, dropped soused saliva on my  white cloth, like a river thawing my shoulder, it burned to  green, i saw a  small hole too, unclothing my skin, but my tongue  is still a glass, i show their  reflections here, to some faint, to others black, just solid and  unperforated, it can taste them. - chetna 🌻 

did i watch it happen   or few mammals in closets, did i walk on your streets  or construct new lockups?  priesthood turned in, tore volumes of past, i can hear this narcissism  "you've to break your fast," soils never need to  forget to forgive at last, seeds spurt out alone but can you harvest such mass? brooms or contracts, street cleaning sophists, consensus or charges, does your senses only work while on drugs,  answer, dear fascists?  one day, i swear i will  line up to bulldoze your churches and the court, i might sleep on flowers but i am not a scapegoat.  - chetna 🌻 

i just bounced myself  back from putting my fingers on edges, i am hardly held tight on the  shafts of wind turbines, revolving likewise the  inner child in me is  watching her own  cycle of crisis of life, i just bounced myself  back from joyriding  down and jumping off  the height, i am such an  ant rotating in turmoil,  now i can't justify why  i used to draw circles at  the age of nine before i  had been linearly aligned, i just bounced myself  back from holding my  girlhood to be graved in grids of graphite, i am such a girl too honest to be hidden  in curves of my mind, still gyring in bridewells  carving my marginal life. - chetna 🌻 

surrounded all around  by sterile stars, but  i do not even try to reach and bask in  such gilded shine,  fuck them, i've my own design, i have never felt so alone yet alive, "where's my life?" was it just sex or  power fuelling my breaths to set my own home on fire? he says, "i am his  only earth in his space" but i doubt my past religions and insights, i might be his life but "where's my life?"  all the other girls  i called Cinderella  are married and  living in beehives, it's hard to chase routes on which  cowards dragged  their bodies into  shame with pride, rolling over thorns  deflating my swollen  diaphragm up and down, "where's my life?" and one day, my husband will  fuck me thrice  just in one night, bittersweet cherry  red marks over my  breasts, leaking white  syrups down there,  on the altar of our bed, he'll show me heavens, but i will ask him, "where's my life?" - chet...

my wrist was the  place where some  scorpion bit and bred its home, as if this slum had sensed how to sit still in sins and salts, they all can trace  the shape of heart it carved while sipping  my burning red serum, well, i too skipped even  my beautiful beats of life but i was straining  pain out of this force, the scorpion finally rested its soul, but beneath my slowly  shattered shells, no one could know for whom to mourn, because they all can  never ever endure, i was that poison's perennial source. - chetna 🌻 

who counts for my  victories at the town square when i have   labelled every loss in secret just to  silence the crowd? but was i allowed? i am losing almost every shade of the canvas, which they  call the threshold  colour of ground ? but was i allowed?  my autumns burned  their umber children  and lost the beacon  of drizzling lakes  and snowflakes, is it called profound? but was i allowed?  should i feel just proud? what if i am not allowed ? - chetna 🌻 

their fucking bodies  of one mouth, ten eyes, hundred brains plotting, but i won't trap my skull in mud again to find their meaning, some man wishes to use my hips to  caramelize his dick and die fantasizing, but i won't clap, cry and cope again when  talking to the ceiling, bereft reasons left with my bare senses, so they call termites to carve me all from within, but i won't turn my  visceral words again to leave me bleeding, "you're so loud, way louder than so-called  pain, such synchronised  shame you aim!" but i won't call out  my raw and rough  rhymes again to undo the phases of my healing, theories based on the hard stones, but yielding stories inked into the warm room, but i won't crush the soil, force my divine  again when the world prays to get me kneeling, - chetna 🌻