23 August 2016

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,

It isn’t a glitch
It will always have to be
Exactly – like this

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
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

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
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.

11 August 2016

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.