Scribble, Scribble, Scribble, Crumbling another poem on paper without a word, Oh! Wait, scribbling on your skin.🪟 The beautiful arc of the stretch marks—I always wish I had one. Ammi had many; she told me Nani got some after giving birth to her. I stole a man with a scribble [strech marks]. Oh! I can't stop imagining the loud crackles during heavy rain- One in his eyes that I name his cheeks a land of tears, Other outside his window of the slurs people speak for him. Their ugly mindsets never come close to even his bin polythene. 🗑️ The man I stole wore long sleeves to hide the stretch marks. 👔 I wore long sleeves to avoid being questioned about my favorite burnt skin, “ Hey, what kind of mark are on your neck and forearms .” 👘 I am tired of telling them How much I love my burnt skin, As they made me a living story. Along the ocean of unbothered waves, I'm tired of his disgust for hating his stretch marks. Sometimes I carve a line or two, 🖋️...
The scenery of home during monsoon Is like putting flavours for the first time In a new dish. Important, Confused, An Adventure of a lifetime memory. The plants aren't easy to look after, Like murky dust on the windows 🪟 That wet doormat on the balcony during rain ☔ The last decor piece on the first wall hanging craft from the kindergarten. Earlier, it was the aromatic new books at school, Now, it's the cool advertisement of unpleasant crocs, The payment slip of new job, To savour the delicious noodles. The latest exercise at gym, And the muscles sore it brings, With loads of serotonin. The failure expressing gratitude in a new mail, And may be being selected for the interview at favourite institute. The pungent smell of the last burnt photograph, And the fresh journal diary with generous characters. What is easy then? The running feet to grab the clothes hanging 👚 The drenched feet playfully dancing 🌊 The relief of petrichor, The...