There are caterpillars in my mother’s gajra crawling towards her ears while all she feels are my dad’s iron deficient nails burying in her ill-fitted blouse. *Hanahaki will flower both our coffins, we’re too soiled with the notion of love to ever perceive it.
I flashed god in Ikea, he built a modular queen size bed for us in heaven.
Public indecency birthed him, now he jerks to the naked grandeur, shaming his children for the exhibitionism.
If everyone spoke language in the way it was intended to be vocalized, it would descend into the realm of mathematics. There is no right way to say his Irish name with my Devanagari tongue. My stutter is the art that resins our differences.
Desire is the prison mate that plans the entire day to hang himself when the cell light dims, only to be distracted by the magazines he hid the rope under. Pages unfold the sickening pleasure, almost making him too weak to stand on that chair.
It saves what you want to kill and destroys everything you frantically hold on to.