Shea butter brown palaces
Of warmth and refuge.
Fuschia pink fluttering
Fortresses against the arrows of the harsh world.
Crimson red words of
Reassurance and critique
Rendered as soft glances and light pats.
Bearers of strength and will.
Soft stacks of cotton candy
Spelling childhood comfort.
Light blue breezes against
Bringing the sky closer to me.
Scented with trips to the icecream truck
And gajar ka halwa.
Stacks of drapes
Folded into neat stacks
An amulet, or
Perhaps that’s for her to decide.
//Apologies for the long hiatus.//
You should have seen this coming.
Even though I blamed you for the wreckage, I should have kept a mental note of each time I couldn’t muster up the courage to snatch keys to my mind that you held.
Amidst the crookedness of the front gates and the neglected and damp front porch, I should’ve known that you were not capable in the least to keep the sanctity of the place you occupied. With the thoughtless scribbling in wretched hues of brown and black which you left on the rotting walls, you reminded me of the pictures I once carved on my skin- paintings of the moon and the stars because it was perhaps the only way I could actually catch sight of them. I couldn’t hear my own voice over your incessant rambling- a slow simmer ominous of a gas tragedy.
You kicked way too many things under the doormat and now my mind is infested with cobwebs relentlessly holding onto thoughts which fool me into thinking that alcohol tastes better when I am sleeping and falling asleep on the couch of a stranger. Your fixation of peeling away the chipped paint on the walls was doing little to help me hang on.
Under the Christmas lights and the polaroids and your fixation with superficial beauty, my mind was still in the dilapidated condition entailing your caretaking.
I hold my palms up to the sky so that they see proof of your residence in me- as it turns out blood stains longer than paint. So, leave. Probably only to leave a kind reminder that you were here; to remind me in strange ways that we had tried for something- something that I should never try again. I’ll probably spend nights searching for those giant tins of caramel and cheddar popcorn, instead of you.