Mosaic of Wilted Gulmohars — Poems by Isha Paikkadan

(A literary response to "The Morning After I Killed Myself" by Meggie Royer)
TW: Su*cide

The night before I killed myself,
I stayed in bed too long.
Too many things were to be made right,
So I got up and pretended to have yet another normal day.

The night before I killed myself, I lost feelings, not for the boy I adored or the books I
liked. I lost feelings for my mother's sandwiches. I lost feelings for the world and it's
beauty. I lost feelings for everything that I once called home.

The night before I killed myself, I pulled out my old journal
it had all my anguish and ordeal in skin-deep blood ink
I looked at the scars on my chest and wondered, how am I still alive?
I picked a few polaroids that were left abandoned and placed it between the two glasses
of my wall shelf.

The night before I killed myself, I smiled at that kid I always hated. I made
amendments with my own ego.

The night before I killed myself, I cleaned out my room and burned all those letters I
never sent. I told my parents I loved them and my friends, i was proud of them.
I made myself a hot cup of coffee and watched the sun setting down on my happiness.
I played songs from my favourite playlist and wore my comfiest of clothes.

The night before I killed myself, I looked in the mirror and told myself how proud I
was to have gained the courage to finally kiss the dust.

The night before I killed myself, for one last time, the voices inside me whispered,
"sleep little angel, sleep".

Loneliness has caught onto me like wildfire.
I trace my skin for friendships lost and lovers abandoned.
As each cell burns I try to think of someone,
My heart is a graveyard of everything I’ve ever loved.

Collarbones crack as a reminder of a lover.
Boiled flesh reeks of another’s scent.
I choke on blood where a lover’s taste once lingered.
Smoke descends from my blistered remains.

My ashes form a rangoli,
a mosaic of wilted gulmohars.

wake me up when someone writes poetry about the loss of an unborn child they never
wanted.

wake me up when someone writes poetry about me and you in this lifetime and not
another one.

wake me up when someone writes poetry about the coldness in the air and not that of
my lifeless body.

wake me up when someone writes poetry about the wilted flowers in my vase and not
the ones on my tombstone.

wake me up when someone writes poetry about war in love/heartbreak and not the
battle scars on my skin and soul.

wake me up when someone writes poetry about midnight lovers and I’m not it.