やめってよ！

I do not somedays, know how to stop,

this tirade of feelings, the conversations in my head,

the silent hum of nothingness in one of my ears,

So I lay where I feel safe,

under the covers, on my bed.

I trail off for hours, feeding silently to what may never be.

Holding off the things I need to do, the places I need to be.

The laundry rolls its eyes, the dishes sigh for a while,

how lucrative it seems in my head, to just 'Bibbity-Bobbity' it from my haven, where at least for now, I want to die.

Death is soft, like your favorite cardigan

Putrid, perhaps, like a day-old shower, 

Smells and victory from the night before linger in the air

Autumn foliage and venomous salamanders, cheesy karaoke dates, and Pachinko winnings

They like to sit bare feet, you follow their lead 

Robot babies and empty onsens 

Disney fantasies and 80s rock

A fridge full of food, Kheer that reminds you of home, a glass of water, endless jars of supplements, a hot shower,

seem so far away, so unattainable,  from under your blanket town

So you lay there some more, and try to sleep, 

but the owls find out!

Now it's you and them, the nocturnal gang, trying to figure it out.

Tokyo まで Osaka

Tattered tissue paper, secretly piled under the bed linen

a missing neck cushion

a crime committed in the wee hours of the night: ringing a door bell and running for your life

gullible like the orange

two pairs of identical pants 

face masks and book marks

trains whizzing past

cafes that served bad food, no food, great food

stale morning coffee

forced Japanese pronunciations

Taxi men: some old, some Genki, always apologetic 

Bananas to bid luck for the new year

a very sudden goodbye

home is where your heart is 

Dead Superwoman

 

Torquoise scarf, Pom-pom ornamented khussa

       flailing her legs on the bike 

A lady with perfectly set hair, on a bluetooth phone in a polished car

Women in dusky Chadors, helping their next-of-kin up the endless ladder of tourniquet: the overhead pedestrian bridge 

A duo, with their hair in a bun, strays sticking out

Heading home, zig-zagging through the rush hour after a day of manicuring other women’s delicate finger nails,  

Twenty-something with hair now showing hints of silver, Jhumkas dancing in the post-precipitation wind,

breathing the last bit of freedom.

Before they go home,

 

To a stack of dishes, 

Piles of homework, 

Supper preparations, 

That if isn’t served on time; isn’t flavoured enough; isn’t warm enough

Will bear the brunt of the SuperWoman Syndrome

Abuses hurled,

Blue-purple bruises, 

A headless torso, 

Tell me again how home is the safest place for a woman. 

Noor

Love blinds women, they say
He’s not all bad, 
He’ll come around, I know he will 
Someday too soon, when I’ve given him my mind, body and soul 
Love changes everything
His rage: an expression of masculinity 
The workings of his lineage 
Anger is instinctive, isn’t it? 
Titular perhaps 
Perhaps it will wash away,
Like the ocean does to a cliffed coast 

Perhaps there is another horizon 
Patience is a virtue that will sail us through 
To prairies and vineyards 

Perhaps. 

Closure

Diagonals of dark abyss: the numbness of you

Slow, steady, surreptitious: rasps of jagged breath. 

Convulsively now. For it may be over. Commemoration of Closure.

Abyss flames through.

 Demented diagonals now fireworks of sharp, aching pain that begins in the pits. And ends right there too. 

Like lava baptism,

 burning yet purifying.

Whimpered, breathless, spasmodic sobbing.

Prostrating for forgiveness.

History

Of hope and tragedy
that repeats itself

Of smile that reaches the eyes,
masking the forlorn

Of people born to the Zodiac
Of losing love that was never yours

Of butterflies in the stomach
Making you feel lonesome again

Of history repeating itself,
For some things shall never change.