Tag Archives: Indian

Seven days of loving you

Day one:
You walk in
and I begin
It’s confusing and confirming
at the same time.

Day two:
My anger dissipates
You let me be angry
And ask if you should leave
I don’t ask you to stay.

Day three:
I never wanted you to leave
You say you know
You say you’d probably stay
Probably is enough, because that’s all I have too.

Day four:
I ask you if you’d let me in
You say I’m in, but I know you
You don’t let me in
We go back to fucking
I am sure of you
I’d take the heartbreak, and two minutes of you.

Day five:
We fuck and we fuck and we fuck
I don’t care if you leave
As long as my toes curl
And you smile.

Day six:
I let you in.
You don’t have time
I know we’re back to the start.
You’ve broken every promise
You’ve broken my heart.

Day seven:
I will think of you always
Darling, I am yours if you want me
But you don’t want me
And this is where I leave you, again.

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Erasing you

I rub rub rub
Till my skin is the colour of the setting sun
Kind of like you, a little
Perfect, I’d said.

I scratch, scratch, scratch
At the wound till it bleeds
And stays unhealed
It hurts less than I hurt when I think of you.

I scrub, scrub, scrub
You away from my skin
But the feel of your touch lingers
Like a phantom limb.

I break, break, break
The habit of you.
That’s nothing compared to
My shattering heart.

Untouchable- Part 3

the smell of chickens
and cows and bulls
hit me as i reach
my grandmother’s house.

she lives alone
with the echoes of her past
haunting her.

her only friend is
the maid who now cooks
mid day meals to support herself.

the maid’s daughter married
an alcoholic to save herself from poverty
but came back running home
when she had a son

All these people
Getting divorces now
Back then we stuck to our spouses
In sickness and in health

My husband had cancer
And I stayed by his bedside
Till his last breath
Taking a sabbatical from work

Kunju ettan taught me
how to pick mangoes
and how to make manga chamandi
with a stone mortar

he taught me to play
catch, and seven stones
and to act for a play he’d written
about forbidden love

he teased me about boys
i was friends with
and girls i wasn’t

he told me to call him kunju
or vaishakh,
because ettan is too formal
i now know why.

he sat a bit away when we were eating
and my grandmother didn’t touch him
he had to throw his leaf elsewhere
and burn it to the ground.

every evening
my mother interrupted me
from our games
and i had to go
to our kollam
and have a bath
to rinse him away from my skin.