I hate how this world carries
its spine hollow within my cleavage
full of smirk full of desire
I hate how I still write poetry,
partaking in this illusion of a contestation;
The cigarette flick of an elitist
Promising social revolution to the masses
full of smirk full of audacity.
My whole life … Amma….
My whole life… I have lived
like a drop dead gorgeous lie
I have eluded my body,
cast it into a romantic
framework of perpetual angst.
I am finally growing up now
which means I have finally learnt how
to spell trauma backwards
which means I
firmly sweep the confetti
Off the bathroom floor
Drop your arms, dear sir.
I have arrived on this holy ground where
Two stones can strike three renegades
& still live to tell the tale
I wonder how I still write poetry
devouring this world in its language
I can never speak
Evading its sight &
Swirling my tongue
But you can call it
That is why my grandmother all those years ago
Locked herself in the kitchen & set herself on fire
Because articulation is a luxury
Even for those who can afford anger
Panchami is a law student from Bengaluru who loves coffee, books & hiding in various corners of the world attempting to write poetry.
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