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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An Ode to Life (and lack thereof)

A code is written in our genes of the explosion that
Saturates our cells with innumerable stardust

We breathe the same atoms Adam breathed in the garden
While his teeth sank into the saccharine fruit of rebellion

The remnants of millions of past lives
Course through our veins as our numbered days

We move the stars to envy with our capacity for life
And yet we sit here drowning our misery with

The way our blood dances in crimson arabesques on the wet bathroom floor.