Let it not be a surprise if ma calls
saying that my head’s been done in.
To clarify, this house doesn’t have anything against me,
I just don’t feel supported anymore.
The cracks along the pillars reveal no gold and the stakes are too high for a slip up
(we’re clearly past that stage in the relationship).
The concrete ceiling frames the day and hangs over my neck.
If music is liquid architecture,
please let’s turn the volume down:
the cross-ventilation crucifix pierces the body
and it is no joy to wake up in a room this well-lit.
Nobody jumps to their deaths here.
The preferred mode of torture is the afternoon sun
which loosens atoms and raises bile
and throttles and suffocates;
mercy is the passage of time.
At night we pop an antacid and weigh our entrails,
accounting and calculating
the capital risk in sticking it out
for another 127 hours.
Oorna is a writer and researcher based in Mumbai.
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