thingamabob

Metamorphosis

The shape of the mouth, the speed of speech, the sound of footsteps, they’ve all changed.

One day you decided it was too difficult for your fingers to reach your bones. You decided your ear was packed with ugly noise, so you made the noise of the electric guitars and drums louder. Deafening.

The gazes became brief. Almost gone. The whispering that curled itself along sleepy nights faded. Inaudible.

You just nod. Almost like a ‘stop talking’ button. You whisper: “stop talking”. You’re tired.

I’m tired, too. I’m shunned with guilt. I stop talking. I cry. I cry some more. I don’t know the coarseness of your skin anymore. I don’t know if it’s easy enough to reach your bones. But you’re visibly cold to the bone. I don’t know you anymore.

Lifespans

Drosophila 

It was October, and they just issued our library cards. The singularity of my shadow reminded me that the enthusiasm felt about the library wasn’t very common.Young Adult wasn’t among the book categories.

The librarian was a slim woman with a slightly dark skin tone; her sleeves were rolled up to the elbows and she was busy talking on the phone, in a language I did not comprehend. I tried to smile and made my way to the letter D. I recalled my earlier days in school, I came here for the Hardy Boys, and now I came for Great Expectations. 

I stood there waiting for someone to let me borrow the book. After a few minutes, the aforementioned librarian reluctantly brushed her way to the desk.

“Child,” she said in a tired voice, “are you supposed to borrow a book today?”

“Oh yes. It’s Monday…and I’m in tenth grade.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t yesterday or something?”

“Certain.”

I watched her slide open a couple of drawers, and put away some magazines with lots of faces on the covers. She daintily stamped the sheet of paper stapled to the book cover, inside. The fresh ink said 21/3/2011, the due date. The last time this book was borrowed was in 1999.

“Ever read this book, Miss?”

“Is there anything wrong, child?”

“No, Miss. I was just asking if you read this book, before, I just…”

“Oh,” she looked at me for the first time, “I, no, I don’t read fiction. I’m…a sort of Biologist.”

“Oh really, Miss? How nice.”

“Yes,” she was closing the drawer and heading back to her former place. “I was almost done with some research work when I came here.”

“If you don’t mind-“

“Behavioral aspects of fruit flies. I forgot some of it, actually.”

I noticed how her voice wasn’t very tired anymore, behind her spectacles I almost saw a diminished image of the days before her work here. 

“Fruit flies have an average lifespan of a little over a month. I’m sure they’re mentioned in your textbook somewhere. Is it not? Genetics…imagine living for a month,” the bell rang, “go to your class, child.” she smiled back.

I imagined living for a month. Fruit flies lay a lot of eggs before they die, I was sure. But I imagined living for a month minus the eggs part. I thought  about being fully aware and conscious for life, a month. Or would the learning process be accelerated? I thought about how I’d probably still read books. I thought about how I’d probably still look at the ceiling, the crisscross patterns on my skin, faces of people with aspirations diminished on the surface of their spectacles. 

I say nothing,

I rarely think

but I feel the

dust inside 

my head

form cocoons

that break open

every November.

I do nothing,

there’s a little

room  inside

my head

with candles that

smell like lavender,

matches wasted

over burning

my thoughts,

and a buzzing sound,

no one’s gonna call

anyway

but the line

is always busy

(I forgot to

hang up 

when I fancied

talking

to you.)

Free

Finally,

with all the

storms inside

my fingers

and little mind,

I untangled two wires

of headphones,

turns out

they were separate

after all

and not a pair

of right and left.

Finally,

I untied two strings

of letters,

turns out

they were words

not even in the

same sentence.

Finally,

I wiped my 

foggy windows

and us isn’t 

a rainbow

anymore,

oh, finally,

I saw that 

you were the moon

reflecting sunlight,

and I were the Earth

blue

polluted

but reflecting

so much more.

Look here,

I’m terrible

at living,

but my mouth

sucks air anyway

and my nose

keeps leaking 

air; a

precious set

of heartbeats

wasted.

Look into

my eyes,

and see

for yourself

how I’m terrible

with looking

and seeing.

A trillion pictures

of this world

burn, unused,

inside my mind.

Look here,

I’m terrible

at writing

but this ain’t writing

it’s burning

myself

alive

it’s my fingers

that won’t 

stop leaking.

Isn’t it funny?

Sad notes

break out

in my throat

as I close my eyes

and see you

mentally kiss

other honey blossoms.

Then,

I open my eyes,

and feel the tears

wash away

the universes

you told me about.

Now

that it’s summer

our mingled scents

are diffusing away,

it’s time for others.

Broken #3

My lung starts

to cough out

dust bunnies

and dead stars,

it’s blacked out

with the 

soot and tar

of infatuation.

Your name’s 

still there

unburnt

like remnants

of poetry.

Broken #2

I feel so heavy

From the inside

Like everything

Solidified.

Broken #1

The arteries on

my neck turned

to spider silk,

nothing flows 

anymore.

It’s Been So Long

I hear nothing

but the humming

of a laptop and A.C.

my cardiac system

is muted

you got

the remote control.

I see nothing

but a screen of blueness

blurring as the petals

of love 

fall off my eyelids.

I feel nothing

but raindrops

of arrows to

my mouth

so I write you

to tell you

I love you.

Anticlockwise

Let’s rewind,

Grow innocent,

Ink will curl

From my fingerprints

Back to the pack of pens,

We’ll release breaths

Then take in,

Book covers will crack

Starting page 310,

The father will start

Buying the mother

Dresses, the ‘discussions’

Soon ceasing,

The girl will plunge

Out of the lake.

The head

Gets quieter.

You love I,

Your heart will

Grow feathers,

And mine

Shall be healed.

The lanterns

On the whiteness

Of paper

Are put out

As I release

The darkness

Of my thoughts.

It’s scary

How your mighty knuckles

Knock down

The numbers 

On my clock

While a wall

Stays mocking

Between us;

The elderly hand

Shrivels across

Time, and

Dips itself

In the water

I’m immersed in,

Streams of

Bubbles through

The cracks

I try making.

You’re a meteor,

My bruises are

Truly cosmic,

Please,

Make me a crater.

And again

We watch the curtains close

The pleas and confessions

To padded walls

A stage, blemished

With white foot steps

A spider

Starts to crawl,

We tread on

A barren floor

Your figure is

A half-lit moon

I fancy dragonflies

Left their wings

On my iris

Did you hear

Me call, dear?

I’m overflowing

Prickly with hope,

We sway, like ruins

After-math of a war,

We sweep around,

A millennium of ghosts

No melodies

But silent tapping,

We blend in the scenes

Behind, 

We’re blooming

On a snowy night

The invisible audience

Clap their hands

And we watch 

The curtains close.

Biology Text Books

When I was younger,

Rolling rectangles of

White paper

Was something I did.

I’d stick the edges

Colour the end- yellow;

Pretend that I was smoking,

And feelin’ mellow.

But I obey Biology

Text books, and not

Exactly fond

Of unhinged lungs

Over my

Over-saturated heart.

Speaking of hearts,

Mine’s a see-through

Your beautiful eyes

Are in there, too

Your personality

Is its pacemaker

Your laughter

Is its murmur.

(Now, where’s 

My Biology text book?)

Now, you’re younger

Than you will be

Next December

And the one

When you’d be

Forty, too

So you can go on

And pretend

That you can perpetually

Love me.

(You stuff the chambers

Of your heart

With sheets

From Biology text books.)