My mother asks me why do I
Give my poems names
Like wheelchair, a crutch,
an inhaler
A one bedroom beating heart
Why can’t i call them
something prettier, softer,
less sick and more
alive or simple literary devices
that carry my sad
around when it gets bored inside
It’s home, or when restlessness
locks itself out of my mind,
It doesn’t happen often
But it happens.
What she means to ask
But is too afraid to is
Can you not put yourself
on display like that?
You’re drawing the wrong crowd.
Most of the days i sneer at them,
The questions i mean.
Or the crowd
( depends on what day it is)
A girl gone feral is a girl alone
But today is a question mark
Shaped freckle resting in the
crook of my arm with the IV needle
And time is throwing rocks at my window,
so before the tapping stops
Let me tell you that this poem right here,
is a gas mask
A tiny piece of tech miracle
A small rebellion against death’s tyranny,
This poem will make paper swans
out of your discarded suicide notes
and teach them how to fly
so that your friends can find you on time,
This poem thinks you’re beautiful
Even on the days you don’t wash your hair
or shower because inside the blanket
is a dark you feel safe in,
This poem will say i love you back
Exactly seventy-three times and
will not be afraid to hold your hand
in dimly lit parking lots,
This poem will not cancel plans,
This poem thinks love is coming,
is just around the corner and
is one call away.
This poem will dial the number.
This poem will help you
on days medicine will fall short,
On the days you’re the only person
In your one-bedroom beating heart
And the walls start to close in on you
This poem will be there to
paint the cabinets yellow,
it’ll let the sunshine in,
This poem will kiss you behind the ear
and rub that spot on your back
you can’t quite reach
when you’re nauseous
This poem will love you,
unconditionally.
Here
mom,
If it still doesn’t sound pretty
Think of it like like this
This poem is just
Another reason to go on living
In a long list of reasons
For one more day
at least.
by Swati barik
Give my poems names
Like wheelchair, a crutch,
an inhaler
A one bedroom beating heart
Why can’t i call them
something prettier, softer,
less sick and more
alive or simple literary devices
that carry my sad
around when it gets bored inside
It’s home, or when restlessness
locks itself out of my mind,
It doesn’t happen often
But it happens.
What she means to ask
But is too afraid to is
Can you not put yourself
on display like that?
You’re drawing the wrong crowd.
Most of the days i sneer at them,
The questions i mean.
Or the crowd
( depends on what day it is)
A girl gone feral is a girl alone
But today is a question mark
Shaped freckle resting in the
crook of my arm with the IV needle
And time is throwing rocks at my window,
so before the tapping stops
Let me tell you that this poem right here,
is a gas mask
A tiny piece of tech miracle
A small rebellion against death’s tyranny,
This poem will make paper swans
out of your discarded suicide notes
and teach them how to fly
so that your friends can find you on time,
This poem thinks you’re beautiful
Even on the days you don’t wash your hair
or shower because inside the blanket
is a dark you feel safe in,
This poem will say i love you back
Exactly seventy-three times and
will not be afraid to hold your hand
in dimly lit parking lots,
This poem will not cancel plans,
This poem thinks love is coming,
is just around the corner and
is one call away.
This poem will dial the number.
This poem will help you
on days medicine will fall short,
On the days you’re the only person
In your one-bedroom beating heart
And the walls start to close in on you
This poem will be there to
paint the cabinets yellow,
it’ll let the sunshine in,
This poem will kiss you behind the ear
and rub that spot on your back
you can’t quite reach
when you’re nauseous
This poem will love you,
unconditionally.
Here
mom,
If it still doesn’t sound pretty
Think of it like like this
This poem is just
Another reason to go on living
In a long list of reasons
For one more day
at least.
by Swati barik
