The Bottle of Promises
Don’t drink me —
I intoxicate.
Don’t take a sip —
the hallucinations
of a happily ever after will
cloud your discontent.
When you wake up
your head will hurt.
Your stomach will clench in pain.
You will be hung-over.
Don’t. Please.
Please. Don’t.
Oh dear. What a shame.
You didn’t listen.
Seasons
Tears
p p
o o
u u
r r
like heavy rainfall on my
windshield. My hands refuse
to wipe off the racing droplets.
A week later —
the showers dwindle.
A light drizzle here
and
there.
Pain clings like a
barbed blanket of fog.
Memories will begin to fall
one leaf at a time
once the storm has passed.
The Transaction
Our home,
our room,
our books,
our memories.
Transaction completed —
his home,
his room,
his books,
my memories.
Surprisingly, his
massive recliner
was carried off
effortlessly,
while I could
barely raise my ghost.
Reading
A mango’s skin
peeled lightly, carefully.
An oil container
dehydrated of its contents.
A bag of wheat
dusted of its final granule.
All its words
poured, preserved
in my mind,
I hum my book,
my anthem,
until the next one.
My Room
I want
A wardrobe that hangs my uncreased happiness
A drawer that stores my despair, do not open
A dustbin where I toss my anger
A shredder for guilt
A shelf that displays trophies of resilience
A desk where I mull over my fears
A painting that covers my scars
A corner to read solitude
A mirror that accepts
A sink to wash away self-doubt
A bleach bottle for anxiety
Windows that see but don’t covet
A bookshelf of experience
A shower of love
A tap of flowing support
I want my room.
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