By Akansha Bhattacharjee
I feel like the pages of your diary.
Mellow, vintage, sage green,
Worn, withered and filled with self comprehending,
Meaningless strokes of pleasure.
As you treat me with kindness,
As you use me by your means,
I wonder; what truly ought to be of me.
Shall I remain like this?
Bequeathed,
With the remainders of your ‘touch’ through your nonchalant mollifications?
Or should I move on?
To my own climaxes of surrender,
“Once more?”
I bottle your tears,
In the waves of frothy curtains.
Your dripping face ruins my white dress.
Red, black, purple, blue,
Your two-faced, selfish laments.
Is it worth?
To be so menacingly kind,
As to be on display for the protocols that don’t exchange,
As I feel lost,
The burning page polyps further deranged,
Should I give up on you this time?
My mind wanders;
As you turn the pages of your diary.
The depth of anything doesn’t touch my trenches anymore.
Such shallowness, the whole world bears,
Morose on a ground of excused implores.
Gone the penchant, poised insolence,
Under the shallow words of condolence,
Hidden underneath the dead flowers on which I swore.
I swore to be loyal,
Loyal to the pages of your diary.
But now the ink stains my growing consciousness.
So I say no more,
No more to the ones who ruin the pages of their diaries.
By Akansha Bhattacharjee
Comments