Lakshya Singh
It`s pouring again
from the orifices of nascent sky,
the way crimson droplets of blood
shed from the grasp of her flimsy nails.
“Don`t look at me, my tiny pixie
It`s time to cuddle again in bed,
The night shivers in silhouette of
stark tremors and feet-numbing cold,
It`s pouring, it`s pouring again! ”
She pokes her hand
on my frivolous cheeks
circles her fingers
on my frozen temples
they droop down
against my bottled chin
and get wedged around the throat.
Tarantulas run over
my unkempt body,
their appendages pierce my skin.
So, I awfully cling
to her wooden chest
like a nasty leech sucking blood.
It pours and pours, until I am wet.
Her eyes groan glittering red,
with burning fires of hell
those legs twist like a wretched crab
her teeth brush against my hair
I tighten my hands around her neck,
We coo and cuddle as languished crows
covered beneath a black quilt.
I plead to her
needle-pointed ears
to take me out of
the clutches of her skin
to exhale me out with
her demonic breath
to bury me beneath
that beautiful tree.
but she devours me each time
the way she gulps her shadow
away from those splintered mirrors
So I swing my ashen legs,
kick them over and over
her inflated belly
It pours and pours enough
to drown me.
This work has been published in Beetle Magazine's August 2020 Issue.