ceiling

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 🌻