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
finally 
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
Calling it

a conversation                        

But you can call it
Something elite

                                a ventriloquy 

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.