The girl who cried Woolf

Fill your pockets with stone, each pebble
Measuring the exact weight your lungs
Are accustomed to carrying, for
Every breath is an exercise in recycling
ashes of your own internal entropy

Your mother and father’s fractured shadows
Your brother’s calloused hands on your thighs
Murky forms are the only clarity in amorphous
Hours, when you succumb to bitter convolutions
That harden as quivering multitudinous words

Like paroxysms of love that follow their absence.
They catch your breath when all you want is to
Prepare a dinner for your doting husband, but
When you’ve internalised all this external trauma
Even the certainty of his goodness cannot save you.

Virginia learned the hard way
If she cried woolf too many times
Her own mind stops believing. Then
The only one she trusts to carry her weight
Are waters that drown her with applause

So she would not be caught perpetually Between the Acts.

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moonshine December

Drain the clear glass tonight, for
If you stare into the wall glass
You may catch glimpses of sadness in its shards.

Sadness, this raging compulsion
Fueled and doused by fiery liquid in shredded knuckles
The only antidote to bitter cold in your deep December.

You, adept at flinging stars
Into her eyes. She crumbles into herself
Unable to understand the only love language you know.

Pulp her like an orange until her innards
Resemble a shape you can read. Her juices are
Tender on your raw bones and may even remind you that

For you, December ends in ten days 
For her, every month is December.