the drains are thick with the gulmohar, this
unnamed season. a helpless archivist of
winters that have bled. october is elsewhere
(in your carry-on) i am still the beast
with redglass claws, learning the itch of
deceit (soundscape: ribs crunching, storm after
storm) i find myself always on the edge of
some chasm and here in the city, backboned
by fog and attar. i live in the space between
places that used to be mine. you, an islet
girl-turned-monster, i wonder if all that i
ever love will always be archipelagic.
unnamed season. a helpless archivist of
winters that have bled. october is elsewhere
(in your carry-on) i am still the beast
with redglass claws, learning the itch of
deceit (soundscape: ribs crunching, storm after
storm) i find myself always on the edge of
some chasm and here in the city, backboned
by fog and attar. i live in the space between
places that used to be mine. you, an islet
girl-turned-monster, i wonder if all that i
ever love will always be archipelagic.
✱✱✱
| Lakshmi Mitra is a 20 year old college student living in Kolkata who occasionally frustrates herself into a bout of writing. She is mostly polite, an awkward conversationalist, and doesn’t like sudden movements. Therefore, it comes as a great surprise to her that her cats still don’t like her. She has been published in The Rising Phoenix Review, The Fem, and Words Dance among others. She blogs at thiswinterheart.tumblr.com. |
