Author: Kanika

It’s a bedspread and a hanging roof,
Thoughts when I can’t hold my head high.
A bed of thousands rough hills and
hundred ways to crush them under thin ice.
Or I just write poetry
murdering their morale
sipping ugliness from
the hem of my skirt.

Sitting across the table
they mock the way I handle my butter knife,
or the depth of my blouse,
or the unnecessary forks I never give them.
I could easily mishandle my cards
and land that flipping knife
in their soft, filthy, world-doesn’t-need gut.
I thought they were bad people.
Is it too late
for me to not be
W-I-C-K-E-D?

I just wanna have fun!
One line, two lines and then three
all I see is boundaries.
Why there is a stranger on my face?
Why there is a stranger on my legs?
You no pretty,
You burn butterflies into
ashes with you stare.
My slap on your cheek
and I am a drunk
H-Y-P-O-C-R-I-T-E.

I sprawl across the bed
un-gently, motionless
sinking in Salem issues.
Orthodox minds and shrewdness
raises me every night.
The demonic presence in your heads,
work of evil on your tongues
incinerated fresh hopes, innocent fates,
begging hands, kissing lips
and you called us
W-I-T-C-H-E-S.

The roof hangs like a bodiless head
what does it want?
Want me to pick myself up?
Before the rage engulfs me
or be scared of a grotesque face
that makes me stay low.
But I am not afraid.
I am contemplating
fitting you in this bed box
as your forever tomb.

©kanikachugh

November is a wetty month
dropping it’s soul on the
last pages of my diary.

Tears corroding the page,
shrinking the size of my heart,
and changing its shape into
a small mailbox
functional only on weekdays
with no space for chocolates or ribbons
but for greetings from afar
then be empty for one-year eternity.

November is a wetty month.
It soon will end
All dried out
the rains, the tears
not sure which one is worse.

©kanikachugh

Too many noises around. None of the noise is for me.

What is this?? This fucking eternal sadness like it has registered itself to my name. There are deliveries at my doorstep I didn’t even order. Stacks of unwanted boxes. One on top of the other. It doesn’t go away.
You know, there are times I don’t like weekends. A little bit of free time and my brain becomes a giant black hole with everything and nothing inside. Swallowing me. And the heart so numb, ignored like an abandoned, dried, dead algae on the walls of a water body. This feeling crushes my body into crumbles that people mistake it for a little, sudden excitement episodes I have.

I make routines, time-tables, workout plans, and believe me, I adhere to it. And then one day, like an anomaly in my utopia, it enters. Stays, for a long long time. Testing me within my routines. I stand still, walk, being busiest in my chores that it suddenly splits the soul into two. One that loves everyone ardently. Other that hates the existence of a tiny strand of living. One that wants to feel every kind of love. Other that feels nothing. At all.

There is a big, ample amount of space where I stand, all alone, lost in thoughts, concentrating on the faulty lines in my hands and I hear someone roar. There is this conveyer belt I see in front of me. With a thud, a big suitcase starts to appear, coming towards me with a relatively fast pace. But I’m lost in the demographics I don’t know well. For sure, won’t survive there for long either. Then I hear a voice,
“Hey, You! Yes you, spaced-out girl. I’m your baggage. Pick me up.”
And I do. Quietly. Politely. Like a nameless slave.

I tread along with this baggage everywhere. I don’t know where to put it down. Too afraid to give it to someone else too. It’s mine, afterall.
Carrying it in a desert, on a spring day, at a party, under the moonlight. Manipulating myself to accept it as a part of me and because of it I exist. Just exist. Like in a file, as a name, a record, a record that won’t even matter after fifty years. And I swear, each time I walk hundred steps with it, two hundred steps afar I go from my home. It’s exhausting.

©kanikachugh