all the keepnotes that couldn’t turn into poems //
i. i miss sleeping next to the sienna-eyed boy i love. look at me – a poetic monster – the country continues to scream elegies while i hunt for reverbed playlists to mute this black-mooned loneliness. i am tired of my affair with bedroom air.
ii. can bad people write good poems? i have under-eye craters reading the thesaurus to see if any of the words you say translate to you staying.
iii. i read a 500-word article on self-love and forwarded it to at least eight friends. after that, i looked at the hallway mirror and while the glass tried a ‘ctrl+c’ and ‘ctrl+v’, i measured the diameter of my arms and called myself ugly. later that day, i danced with hypocrisy.
iv. i am ashamed of all the times i felt ashamed of my softness.
v. ma wishes me goodnight at 10:42 pm and papa messages me to drink warm milk before i sleep at 11:26 pm. i block them at 12:03 am as i remain online for five point five more hours reading seven-year old messages.
vi. do you think our hearts blame us for the scars we inflict on them?
vii. this is a poem about all the songs that have faces, all the colors that have fingertips, and all the perfumes that have voices. periwinkles were just encyclopedic graphics until she put a few in my ponytail.
viii. i wish we could upcycle all the love that remains unrequited. we’re a love-starved lot simultaneously scared of building homes in one location.
ix. a stranger told me she found my words beautiful and i concluded ‘she’ was a bot. i am sorry, i am sorry i hate what she found time for. i say i am thankful but sometimes, i cannot tolerate a single alphabet i birthe. self belief is a rollercoaster ride and i was born with motion sickness.
x. i bought a 64 MP phone only to take blurred photos of the sun switching on the night lights.