A Hystory Of Ovaries.

When I’m in pain

I like to complain

It so happens that

For the last

One decade

My body leaks

For days

It’s a raw deal

Extra blood

Extra sweat

Extra tears

I think I was given

Too much woman

I keep having to

Give her away

In spurts

Ever so often

And it hurts

Like a bitch

I asked about it,

Concerned

It isn’t a glitch

It will always have to be

Exactly – like this

Sometimes

It promptly arrives

Like my internet bill

Full of mixed feelings

Every 11th of the month

Or too often

Like a faded, forgotten

Familiar face

Shows up

46 days late

Turns my back

Heavy

With exquisite pain

Takes shape of the world map

On my bed sheet, stained

Pours incessant

Like rain on my parade

Which feels like home

Because I am

A monsoon baby

It’s in my veins

I wonder

If the body is a temple,

Many would disagree,

Ask me to leave

Myself at the door

Am I a house, a strange home

Where the staircase hurts

When the faucet drips

I wonder

Does it tremble

Out of anger

There’s no one living in it

No one will see

In the dark

There was

Bloodbath in the halls

Warm palms on my back

Relax, sit back

Woman contorted

It will all be duly sorted

Soon

Maybe because

I like red too much,

Oh wasn’t it

Something to do with the moon

My hands smell like earth

The war inside woman

Is a silent pogrom

Of lovely her against her

Lovely self

Equally stubborn

I wait

Without blame

For the leak to fix

Itself

For it to cease,

Unpinch, to breathe

Through musty windows

For it to leave

I never did ask for

An extra side of

Blood, sweat, and tears

But here I am, I was

and will be, with

Too much woman,

Attached to my existence.

Damn it.

What was I doing? Nothing is going anywhere except the damn time.

Where is time going? Is it late for class? Does it have a date? Does she wear short skirts, accessorise with small talk? Does she have a book on her at all times? Does time's date's father have a short temper? A mother with a long face? Can she not stay out late? Is time late for work? Does time tie his tie standing in the metro? Is time looking behind her shoulder to see if there's someone following her? Is time staring intently at computer screens all day, eyes burning, selling by the second? Is she trying to keep her hair in place, while the evening breeze in filled with little boys' screams? Does time want to travel to outer space? Does time try hard to keep in line? Inside the lines? Does he not waste time online? Does she feel guilty after lying?

Does time not spend nights sighing and sighing and sighing?

What is time doing? Why is time in a rush? Who is waiting for time? Does time want to be with someone and can't? Did time not want to leave? Did time ever just want to sleep, all day, every day, till the cows came home, till the cold winds had blown, away from her? Is time trying to kill himself because he has to be everywhere, underappreciated and overburdened? Is time depressed? Does time suffer from attention deficit hyperactivity disorder? Why cannot time stand still? Why cannot time be content? Does time find herself a damn bore? Is time scared and is running away, it didn't mean to kill anyone? Does time not read poetry? Is time not poetry?

Where does time go? To places with loud music and quiet hearts? Is time running across a sandy beaches with orange suns? With green mountains, blue mist, tiny goats? Is time too overwhelmed being wanted so badly? Can time not let herself be at someone's side, for all of time? Does time have commitment issues? Who does time stalk?  Does time fumble over her words in imagined conversations? Is he in a rush to get things done, because time doesn't belong to time? Is time buried inside a good book, a conversation, sitting in a corner at a railway station? Where does time go, seatbelted, looking out at midnight, at blood red skies and steel grey clouds, dawning across countries, everywhere at the same time?

Does time want to go away, get away? Go somewhere, go places? Does time want to stop and go nowhere, sit down, smile and look at faces?

What was I doing? I looked at a stranger looking at me writing in my small notebook, covered with pretty red flowers. Looking at me sitting at a window of a train on the other platform. A platform in an ephemeral station of emotions. Magnetic tracks led trains away from each and I wasn't going anywhere. Nothing is going anywhere except the damn time. Answer me.