Marks of Melancholy

By Paridhi Puri

crumbled up in thin packages of light,
my voice filters my tongue as it gasps and gulps for tiny syllables to hold on to,

a rail passes down by throat, on tiny wheels fashioned from the blanket of the sky, rotating, revolving, revelling around my tiny cords,

as they play see-saw with my mood swings

and silence chokes it into two.

a hanging, dilapidated memory of sorts,

left to decay on the floor of my chest.

as the air tries to engulf the blood, and the blood tries to engulf the air.

i feel possessed of wanting aches pressed in my lungs,

because it resurrects mere marks of consciousness

stapled on my skin

for the world to unsee.


  • It’s beautiful. I tried to think how to modify the irctc you ran down your throat, but it looks the best as it is. On a personal note, I hope you don’t get consumed by more of whatever this you are on. Keep writing, brilliant piece.

    Rahul Sivarajan
  • “as they play see-saw with my mood swings”
    - Some powerful imagery you employ. Nice work.


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