Dirty Rugs

By Shragvi Yadav

Five o’clock and the water’s cold,

The tiles are white and don’t look so old,

I cannot sleep, I cannot weep, I cannot sweep the floor,

The dirty rug drips and its heavyweight makes me go numb,

Water—makes me stop, it makes me numb,

There is a rebellion of grief which i don’t succumb,

She settles like burden in my bones—and I let her come.

Staring at the mirrors, I barely recognise the vague concepts of I am—

Especially when the dirty rug’s all that’s left to feel, all that’s left to hold,

It should’ve been warmer, but we live in Decembers and can only dream of springs,

A peculiar release to me— it brings,

When the pain’s well spread and the need to dissolve into what’s not there— rings.

We fear ourselves not because it’s a dirty rug,

But because we can’t do so much and the waters remain cold.

You can sweep the floor,

But the inability will freeze your soul.

The room stinks of detergents—

Soap dripping off of the rugs,

We choose to drench,

While we could settle in the pit long dug—

“But, cold warms you; It brings you purpose”

I listen to the defeating strum of the drip, 

As it escapes the dead-dirty rug.

By Shragvi Yadav