Disgracefully, this iteration is emptying itself. I want to sleep. My mouth hurts from the unfamiliarity.

And I want to write you a poem about flowers. Their dyed skeletons. Their plastic tits. Instead I stuff a rag into my throat. Nothing happens. The night reeks of kerosene.

Tell me how to set fire to us.

Each of the trees that line our alley is obstinately bare. I unfold myself, squint at the brilliant slut that is my heart. Then everything is ash.

I beg. You plead. Together we dance the dance of death.

Under my skin, prickling veins burst into dawn. Tear me apart, I want to hiss. But there are promises. There is anachronism. An expletive called love. My 9 year old poem sneers at me from the corner of his eye.

I laugh.

The ceiling judders, spits venom. There are scars all along the entirety of me. I am lies and thorns and immiscibility. And I want to hold. I want to arrange. I want to align every glass thread that gives you a shape.

The moon is just a ball of lightless rock, dearest best friend. Look at my hands. Look how they bleed.

©Mohana Das


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