By Jayanti Y
Emotions are mortifying,
I remind myself
as the feminist, the loud revolutionary succumbs inside of me.
and as I continue to witness the storm of life devastate.
This body is my home and reeks of death,
of impurity,
of insecurity,
of hatred.
Silence hangs in the air,
whilst resentment lurks around the corner.
I’m tired.
I’m exhausted;
Of loving myself only when it’s convenient.
Hatred is ancient, I remind myself
I lay wide awake and wonder about the utter chaos
and the banishment of doubt
that comes alongside the risk of wanting something,
of wanting someone
Alongside the pretense of love;
You rip me apart,
and I will worship you.
Another futile attempt to fall in love.
Love; Love is ancient;
Love is in whispers of impracticality;
It resides between history textbooks that contain elaborate tales of who loved whom,
And of who was allowed to love whom.
It is human to surrender myself to the unknown;
to language; to poetry:
I am human
so are you. I remind myself;
but our humanity will be our wreckage.
Until then,
I want,
To be engulfed and asleep amidst this war.
To hope and fill myself with aspirations.
One day, I must rot; and you must salvage it.
And we will lay in meadows,
still and discreet,
scraping away this calamity.
Survival exists only on the horizon of its departure.
Our story will be the mere gap between those hunters,
and us prey.
I will be seen.
I will be hunted.
But until then,
Let me drool at the imagination of a home.
Let me drool at the sight of love.
Let me drool at a morsel of humanity.