Inconsistent but sensitive.
I write some apologies meaning to never send them, because there’s no mailing address. I start talking to you in my head before I remember I don’t know where you live anymore. I’m glad I no longer attach memories of people to places…
The ebbing of aPuny godIn the wake of a drumming heartThe translucent dreamOf an approachable motherThe ache in feet and salt-parched throatsA reminder thatGods becomes mortal once a yearThe voices of another festivalNot ours to commemmorateBut ours to celebrateBut somehow…
At the age of thirty, I swallowed all my shame.
— you’d wonder if I’d like to be excluded from this narrative where I punch all my friends
Like I think I like to do in my head
Is there the truth hidden in my dreams
We’ve wasted perfectly good midnights -Watching streams of consciousness go down Two separate drains, sleeping away from each other,Not even touching frail tailbones — I still choke on bones of contention.
our family is a sea of tongues on my right she smatters english between a sentence half-half hindi and malayalam sisters chat in the language they grew up in, not the one etched on their tongues, still familiar, still a warm stove topworn well like the folds of…