I feel okay many a time but safe, rarely.
There are extremely few occasions where my body, mind, thoughts, or heart feel safe. That place is as holy as a shrine for me. My ever-so wandering mind takes away the pleasures so damn easily from me and insults are the first thing it recognizes as something own. Sanity falls through the air and suddenly the person, place, or the vibe ain’t the safe space anymore for me. It’s like feeling safe is so limited.
There is a flesh of beginnings hanging by my window frame. It stinks and I do not throw it away. It could be the past. Every muse of mine loves to reside in past and I am the water.
Water carries memories. Memories make muse come alive,
and the muse tells me how much they live in me. More than me.
I used to stay awake all night, ripping my heart out, stitching their broken part, decaying in apocalyptic poems, writing healing words about them. Every time I rekindled their soul with magnificent words, I burnt a part of me like innocent witches. Every time I wrote about them I crossed a threshold that eyed me the next time I entered, for not being the same person anymore.
They say this is the beginning but the past never leaves. It lives in present, in ashtrays and in last goodbyes. And it lives on my tongue, on my skin, on my fingertips. How to ever taste something else?
I am telling you, I am my checkmate. No one ended me like I did and they say it’s a beginning. It’s an Irish temptation with a warm whiskey and iridescent culture but the cold is bound to come back.
The foul smell from my windows will enter my room and I will know these beginnings reek of the same past I threw away like cigarette butts. I’ll know how many words hungrily march towards a new muse but me. But I am tired. I am so fucking tired of making everyone else my muse. It’s gonna be me. Just me. The evil, starving, lack of love, Me!
I wanna see how many romantic gestures I adorn myself with or with grotesque description concealed in beautiful ceilings; where I face myself legitimately. It is just about gaining the momentum in destroying anything using words.
This Monday, I’d see how much of a wicked sense I can make about writing myself.
©kanikachugh
Go home.
Love’s been heavy.
Glory is loaded
with lead and loneliness.
Go find your dinner table.
Use the salt shaker
by the candlelight.
Don’t fret about being a hero.
Be a Sunday in your place.
Find a broken mixer to fix it.
You’re already a 10.
Life ain’t easy.
So, go easy on yourself.
Visit your fireplace.
Burn your disasters.
Be unburdened.
At times, lazy.
It’s allowed.
And sleep with the
Sun in your mind.
Throw away your phone.
Place your nightmares
behind the curtains.
Let it drop anguish like
droplets from a wet umbrella.
Close your eyes
and be home.
Your breaths are
someone’s prayers answered.
So, go. Run home .
You’re always needed
without any condition,
without any reason.
Go back.
May you find
those melting arms.
©kanikachugh
Separations are serpents. They wrap itself around the neck and choke you anytime they want. So, hold on to your people, as long as you can.
I am here, baby
I’m here.
I’m gonna stay
despite the dust,
more than the August.
I’m here to
celebrate your happy times
Or when you slow down.
I’m here to laugh with you
in a smaller town
or at Disneyland.
I’m here for you, baby
And I’ll stay
like October dramatic boredom.