Neha Maqsood
her childhood bedroom
a casino of speckled memories vehemently
spurning cremation. the childhood bedroom
where dreams and a moment of adulation were dreamt off. the
underground pool burnt to ashes, nest twigs atop spotlights,
shining into the cemented darkness. this home is not a home
anymore. tis a cloud of dust, blowing silently with the wind,
stuck in origin, holding my spot.
a delicate girl, her skin.
spurning cremation. the childhood bedroom
where dreams and a moment of adulation were dreamt off. the
underground pool burnt to ashes, nest twigs atop spotlights,
shining into the cemented darkness. this home is not a home
anymore. tis a cloud of dust, blowing silently with the wind,
stuck in origin, holding my spot.
a delicate girl, her skin.
the pink black-out
that falling, pink blur primed you
for the culminating dive into the light –
an unwarranted misbehaviour of
heart fluttering in misplaced symphony,
stumbling over the refrain with
the blue abyss of the sky melting into the
cyanotic blue of hospital walls, surgical caps and your miscarried
daughter’s nursery.
no longer having the certainty of
a systole which never, ever delays its diastole! extract
your heart out; nail it to the scaffolding for the world
to see.
for i danced in the theatre and have seen what the heart can do,
the ways it can fail, from the
snapping of my ribs to the clutter of an unborn child’s crib.
from the untimeliness of life to the tardiness of my beating.
glug morphine and tend to exes; give
myself a lobotomy and arrange the skeleton in my closet.
unsceptred chambers, muscles like hung clouds
and masked heads.
i hear
they call it a broken heart.
for the culminating dive into the light –
an unwarranted misbehaviour of
heart fluttering in misplaced symphony,
stumbling over the refrain with
the blue abyss of the sky melting into the
cyanotic blue of hospital walls, surgical caps and your miscarried
daughter’s nursery.
no longer having the certainty of
a systole which never, ever delays its diastole! extract
your heart out; nail it to the scaffolding for the world
to see.
for i danced in the theatre and have seen what the heart can do,
the ways it can fail, from the
snapping of my ribs to the clutter of an unborn child’s crib.
from the untimeliness of life to the tardiness of my beating.
glug morphine and tend to exes; give
myself a lobotomy and arrange the skeleton in my closet.
unsceptred chambers, muscles like hung clouds
and masked heads.
i hear
they call it a broken heart.
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