priyanshi ❄️

I don't know yet what it means,

because I bleed rage through my eyes,

and I kill poems in my ribs.

My grief no longer looks

like a beaded necklace of words

that you would wear like a promise,

but a mosaic that you would walk past, because it's hard to comprehend.

But they say that I have the heart of a poet, may be the one that nurtures chaos,

for I yearn for salvation.

And just like my scribbles on the walls,

my childhood is long gone.

Yet the heart of a poet,

which is naive,

unlike the walls I have built around me,

who's innocence is merely a knife

turned inside me.

I hear the ticking of the clock,

and wonder how much will this heart endure.

and mine hurt to open.

What a pity you don’t believe me

when I say we are made of the same feathers.

You’ve built walls so cold around you

that you refuse to see,

Your grief rests in the corners of my eyes.

I weep your tears,

in your joy, I shall smile.

You grow numb, staring at old photographs,

while my hands shiver to hold them.

My dearest, tell me,

Is the cost of seeing blue skies forever

leaving behind a burning home?

You left your home long ago,

and the people in my town

don’t believe that their roofs are tormented.

They called you a wallflower,

tried to pluck you away,

yet you sowed flowers in

my childhood’s barren land.

In our despair,

we were always someone’s pride

or someone’s shame

when all we ever wanted

was to be someone’s home.

But when I see you,

I see the dawn resting in your eyes.

So I keep the sunset hidden in mine,

before the birds return home.

Hold onto me.

Just a little longer.

You, my dearest, will always be