Haven't had the time to be sad lately.
It should be a crime to miss
Melancholy
I am joking.
Yesterday I had the pioneering thought
Never to write personal poetry
Confessional poems, as they call them,
Or at least limit the word vomit
And more often than not, switch to something topical.
Political polemical daily dystopian
Anything but the niche of my narrow, congested life.
I imagined you looking at my poems
Concluding that I am nothing but a woman
Full of herself
Half of human
Thrice a bottle of wine
(I am convinced that my whining with words
Has the potential to intoxicate).
All I could end up writing
My fingers on the keyboard, fight-or-flighting
Just yesterday's date.
You told me once
I should calm myself down
For no one's good but mine;
That anger makes one old and antsy
And raged out moments age our bubble-soft hearts.
I look at the mirror after a good cry
The glaring absence of the glowing skin everyone talks about
Stapled with the new lines on my paper ash face
Pulls my fingers into a fist and it pushes itself against the glass
Thank God I am weak, it doesn't crack or budge.
I am so old, so old, so severely deathly tired and frustrated
Yet indifferent as if there is nothing else to life, nor will be,
Nothing to look forward to because I have let my life swallow me
Every additional year superimposed on the previous one.
My mother is worried that I worry too much
My mother is worried that I worry too much
About the wrong things.
I sacrificed my anger and gestated anxiety instead
Now you tell me. What else?
Another wind that is cold to the touch. How have you been? People keep dying, they always do, In ways unprecedented and documented Dying like always and never before. I am unhappy, you know that, I am not sad, I have decided. The sun shines on your casual stubble Growth looks so good on you, I can't but admire it. We have known each other for a while now You have become an alternate address If I am allowed to be a little cheeky This afternoon. I tell you about the comedian I liked The one you dismissed as boyish and lame And I stir my tea as you tell me about your wedding plans In exactly seven years, No more nor less. I love you, you should know that, like a lost family found, So I scold you into wearing better clothes Goad you into listening to the coolest kind of music for our age. You resist my snobbish takes, I resist your attempts to find me a good man, And another winter snuggles our hearts into a low fire Everlasting and pure.
When the air in our backyard grows mushy and warm The rain arrives in a rush My right ankle cries out in a familiar voice I miss you, in a familiar way. Winters might be lonely but monsoons are melancholic like no other season, perhaps. Had I treated my wound sooner I don't know if I'd meet you like I did one autumn But here are my broken bones, Here are my bouts of pain Here are my chronic reminders of living a life, almost. The backyard has seen many things over the years Before my mother met my father, The way she did one autumn. Grandma and her roses My mother and her touch-me-nots And a plentiful of storms I remember the two papaya trees parallel to the ground Lying like two friends tired after a day of playing in the sun. I could have been the nurturing kind Turned the backyard into a fine garden Painted with flowers of the prettiest kinds And so on. Instead I simply look at the scattered vegetation And the heap of bricks someone kept there for future use. I build no life of mine. I try to demolish Whatever I remember of you. Perhaps you were right, I am creative, Creating impossible problems for myself. But I survived a cold winter in a city that wasn't home Lovesick and strong I have survived in ways that are small and huge A lot like you said you did. Tonight as the weather grows cold and my bones have stopped howling I make a wish Not to remember to forget you But to remove any need for wiping the memories, To welcome the one who is at my door Who is nothing like you And so much more. An ugly backyard is still green And you and I are still memories that once lit up our hearts. I miss you in a quite pleasant way now, I think, Winter takes over monsoon like a grown-up firstborn. My mother gifts me a cactus to keep me company You travel to someone else's heart, I hope.
Do you remember the fat dog sleeping against your leg? How the cat slithered past my lazy arms The narrow raindrops fizzing out our smokes? You looked like a stubborn baby Hair shaven, a martyr to the city's heat A lovely evening by a lake where you swore you saw a duck. I'd known it, then and there, I'd write a poem about it some day When I've left everything behind and into oblivion Yet not quite. Do you remember? How I fumbled with my voice Before we leaned into a discussion About war, drugs, trafficking, and myriad other headlines Everything but what was on our minds, Now I know how poetic it is that our lives are bordered by deaths of different kinds And laced with a never-effacing grief. Do you remember it at all? Any moment, howsoever brief?
My fingers are dipped in comfort As they type this. Children, so many children and their bloody mouths and searching eyes For their lost ones. I am ashamed of making poetry out of war. I am guilty, less than many people, I feel guilty nonetheless My comfort-wrapped fingers Their rubble-wrapped bodies It is suffocating to smile in the age of internet Spammed by the images of war. I will sleep off my heartache Tomorrow is a new day and apathy will never run out It will never run out. We are running out of time, we know, It will catch up someday, war begets war Pools of blood into lakes and rivers Finally no less than an ocean What are we, who can I ask? What have we become? Children, I cry for you. Children, we have lost.
A few minutes with her and I smile to myself She is a well-loved child, Zero personality. I am being mean, of course, She is lovely and promising Sometimes dull, it's true, But doesn't she make that up with her bright, springing eyes? The peculiar kind of mirth that you and I lack, She doesn't, The kind that comes before a thought can occur. In a twisted way, then, I like you more because we have less We will have less We are not lesser, anyhow. I kissed her and it tasted like cloth And I missed your seafoam sandy lips so much that I sighed She is so lovely, she mistook it for a moan. I wrapped my legs around her The softness suffocating my bones The coarseness of your palms and the harshness in your voice They come back to me in flashes With her, I'm no better than left alone.
It was only after the storm locked me in that I could sit with myself Counting the pulse of the cursor on my screen. Your impressive vocabulary (a marriage of therapyspeak And the memefication of everything) Was charming at first, predictable next, tiring in the end. I could have told you everything I felt (Disconnect and other words with the same prefix) But I shushed my gut into silence And my heart into believing That the big man with a small wobbly head Must have a big heart with a small ego. How many times do we make ourselves think into feeling? It's an age-old recipe to make life appealing, when Each day is no more exciting than the regular tick of a clock. Now I am left with a small heap of regrets But a large scoop of relief. There's a sweet kind of peace in knowing what isn't, And I can come back to these lines when I am lost once more In the everyday horrors of anyone's life.
He looked so much like the man I used to love That I stopped in my tracks. I had to wonder if I still looked like the girl He used to hurt every once in a while, And one day, all at once. I stared at him from afar A silhouette burning into my eyes He was playing with some stray dogs I was travelling down the street in time A small kitten in my arm, And a newfound feeling of gratitude Of finding joy in myself. But oh the anxious thrill of meeting him again! I walked up to him Thousands of questions buzzing in my ears A slight surprise, a little hesitation, And he turned towards me The streetlights hadn't begun to speak yet and The sun was about to set In the faint twilight I saw his face change itself A hundred times a second. My arm propped up in disbelief It touched his face of a clouding palette And it finally gathered into a particular shape and stopped. He looks like another man, I saw, Another one I will get used to loving Another one who will hurt.
Nothing is saved. If not monsters, mere potholes, I am tired of falling down and tired of getting up. Nothing is saved, the moon is sadder than I thought, Everything I wish for erased, Now I look for nothing, Nothing is all I get. I'd love to coat my nights with the warmth of sleep But I lie on my bed with my smarting eyes The rain offers no pity. When will this end? Nothing is saved, I need my sleep, I am sick and tired of drowsy days. She said I am supposed to keep myself safe At all times Perennial happiness is a myth. I know she lies for kindness I know he lies to be mean I know not how far I speak the truth, if ever. Nothing is saved because nothing is real But certain things move me, still, In good ways and bad. Nothing can be saved, Nothing can be had.
