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.
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