sticks and stones

i
live in fear the
tumultuous beating of a heart
wrapped in slivers of plastic
my
ribcage cages my breath cloaks
coal black fear choked
up in my throat i
cannot scream.
i cling onto life like
a slippery seal doused in oil this
world is like a big rock on the edge of madness
rock like my heart, rock where
my soul used to be.

ankhon men silay hue ho, udhero na

strawberries and salt

rosy pink some
days are like bleeding lips, some
days like
grains of salt lodged between
the toes, they (you) remind me of
sand, sea, spirit
run free. There is a
pinky hued edge to my memories
my hair still reeks of salty ocean my eyes
still drip with longing of
homelands,
never mine to claim.

I keep
strawberries and salt
close at hand, close
to my heart
the strawberries remind me of home
the salt reminds me of me

like a cavernous hall the mind, ensconced in silver, silent and hollow. thoughts ricochet off the walls like mercury pellets, the tinny impact twinging off the caverns, echoing in the blank silence.
there was a time where I, cross-legged on the floor would watch in amusement each thought, until eventually they dropped, rolling towards me in shame for the ruckus, the chaos, the echoes and echoes and echoes. I would cajole, comfort, hold it close and then release it, watching it dissipate into the white void.
Now I sit in muted horror as I see them grow, multiplying like a terrible cancer, ricocheting faster than I can take stock of each one, overwhelming, shrouding me in fear, rendering me incapable of action. Like gunshots in waves, crashing against each wall, topsy turvy the caverns tilts and spills and I go along with it.
Madness it feels like, and I am terrified to admit it to anyone. Sometimes on particularly troublesome days where the xanax is the only relief I get, I will ask myself, in that small corner, holding my knees to my chin, whisper it between the hollows so only the kneecaps bear witness.. 'could it be Madness? is this how one begins to lose their mind?'

fear is a terrible terrible thing.

-eeda

if words would come

they don't. So I sit shaking in silent fury barely able to contain the rage brewing inside me. Quivering at injustice, horror, fear, a blazing defiance, capped under the calm demeanor of professional corporate slave.

To write is to admit, and to admit means there's a problem that needs resolution. In my heart of hearts I know this is a problem, without resolve. I sit through the cursing and the taunts and the balled fists and the finger in my face with tight lipped anger to protect protect protect always protect this glass image of feigned domestic bliss. Inside everything is shattered, shards and shards and shards of glass raining.

Is it that I am loathe to admit it affects me so? weakness? Is it denial? when I am shamed amidst family, pushed to a wall and involuntarily locked in to a room, when my anger makes me charge and scratch and scramble for my freedom and ability to move as I please, is it this I am unable to comprehend and process and admit? Denial is far far far easier than facing the monster that lives within you and sleeps next to you, asks for forgiveness in drunken stupors and rages in wrath when you deny it the comfort of once again saying, 'it's ok'

it's not. good god, with every cell fiber and rational pulse in me, it's not. i'm not. so I shake in silent fury because everything is always ok on the outside. it has to be.

-f