The Sanctum of Softened Blows

By Anoushka Sinha

This fear is inane, ingrained, untouched.

This is the night when it unfurls,

Slowly, deliberately;

Like how a tongue of weaponised innocence

Licks away its tarnished purpose,

Carefully, calculatively.

That's how it works, plays, and draws out the gasp.

Draws in the paranoia,

Filtering fine madness through sieves made of people.

People who kneel upon rivers,

Beg against the holy,

Then force their gods' will to match their way.

Only to be spared within inches of their lives,

Becoming almost tragedies with no particular end in sight.

Until all they have left are the powdered remains of my mind,

Or anyone else's,

To snort, disperse or bury their secrets in.

And my, what secrets and perversions are those,

Turning me desperate, tender to the touch,

Curling to their rhythms, words, promises, prayers.

Just intruding further in, my breaths collapsing.

Not seeing, not caring,

Only cooing to shush the child that never knew growing,

Only to watch it grow and growl,

To be left alone,

To be wanted and craved some more.

No,

They only want us to be silent.

And so we shall be.

For, so help me fate, if I accept it all with a smile once more...

Things will begin to spiral.

Hands will hit and throw all wrongs.

Justice will be a spectator in its own downfall.

But most of all,

That fear – untuned, unloved,

Will materialise,

Realise,

Familiarise,

Itself with whatever I have forgotten to be,

And force it upon me, calling me the chooser, its decider.

Just how people do, making prophets out of strangers,

Prayers out of curses,

Angels out of villains,

And out of me,

A God.

When in reality, all I'll ever be is something, someone,

Too tired to exist within the realms of all things strange,

Hoping to achieve it all, reaching even higher for experiences I should not.

Eternally enslaved to my mental rot.

By Anoushka Sinha