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 🌻