suicide note

[trigger warning: depiction of self-harm]

across my wrist a memory,
a slender line of pain,
my heart throbs in my ears, red,
this is the border,
my body ends and the world begins.
along my wrist a scar,
against brown,
a passing testament
to the day my world spun out its axis


a quiet place

the bricks
are held together with laughter
and pain
hides under fingernails,
the flowers bloom over
and if you stay too long,
you forget yourself.

Bagora, Kurseong. (Darjeeling District, West Bengal, India)


autumn comes with the whisper of the north winds
drying skin
drier lips
the scent of citruses,
but here in the tropics there’s no fall of grand golden leaves,
i will close my eyes
and think of them—red and yellow, swirling in the air,
covering the ground where my feet softly crunch—a dream of the future.

it’s time to unravel the coils of quilts
and spread them under the sunlight
and watch as the dust spells words in the wind
all the way to my evenings
smelling of coffee and books in a quiet room with a ticking clock.

it’s a time for letting go.
like the way my summer scorched bones heave and sigh and the terrible heat leaving my body
is slowly replaced with warmth under my skin.

no story to tell

every morning
scattered sleep leaves my body
as if elastic strings
plucked from the bone,
i fish out fragments of my being
from clothes piles in my wardrobe.
a sense of purpose rediscovered
in between stacks of paper
in the space connecting words
and my day settles like an ill-fitting jacket
around my body.
two pills unsealed
its white contents leaving trails
in my mug of steaming black liquid,
these hollow plastic shells contain a little life.

there is no story to tell.