She sits alone in the kitchen

She sits alone in the kitchen,

With a plate in front of her.

 

Fork and knife in each hand,

She cuts the food into small pieces,

And lifts it, almost in a mechanical manner,

Puts it in her mouth, and begins to chew away,

Not even registering the delicious flavour

Of it, let alone the smell and texture,

As she stares into blank space,

Her mind a blank slate.

 

Yet she registers sounds,

Irritating to her ears.

 

Strong, loud footsteps of a man walking up and down the stairs,

The sound of a hammer behind the kitchen wall, coming from the neighbour’s home,

The sound of her chewing her food,

And the bitter sweet sound of silence buzzing underneath it all.

The only sound she enjoys, is the sound of cold air blowing through the airconditioning,

As it hushes the other noises, slowly phasing them out.

 

She’s finished her food, to her surprise.

The pots and pans in the sink,

Await a good wash and rinse,

And she knows,

But her body won’t budge.

 

She tilts her head towards the clock,

It’s four.

But wasn’t it just half past three a few minutes ago?

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Ramblings

I don't know what tortures me
yet an idea I might have,
but it's always a conversation
between the four corners inside my head.

I try to translate into speech for others to understand
yet I venture no further than a man who's half dead;
for fear I might send the wrong message across,
for fear I'd scare the shit out of them.

So I can't break the silence
or knock down that door,
for my head keeps spinning
at the thought of it all.

When no one can see
what demons lurk inside your head,
you don't know how to explain it
without them thinking you're going mad.

Morning

Tired looks,

long deep sighs,

our eyes locked together,

his hand between my thighs.
 

The breaking of dawn

lies between our sheets

in warm sentiment;

love broods like a waking bird

celebrating birth

with its morning song –

I don’t want to go home,

I want him to stay.
 

I know the time will not be long

until we meet again,

yet the mere thought of

separation makes my heart sullen as

it plunges into the hollow

space somewhere beneath my chest

and above my stomach –

               Morning is a blessing and a curse.
 

For when we move as one

interlocked, bound creatures,

to the rhythm of our bodies

nothing is more bitter sweet.
 
For sweet is our dance

and bitter is our parting. 

To Hell with it all

One of the mysteries

I’ve yet to unravel

is how in the devil

I’ve managed to 

keep it all 

together.

 

My mind, I know,

were it another,

or belonged to another,

I’m sure,

would not have endured

half of the bulk,

not even a chunk,

of what can be found

within all of its corners.
 

Sometimes i wonder,

if i should get bolder,

and let it break free,

take on the path down that dark road,

to find release, and never turn back.

So much to gain, and nothing to lose,

except for reason of course – a treasure for many,

but a curse to those to whom it

invokes greater desperation and pain, an endless cycle of torment,

like being stuck in the same level of a game.

after all,

ignorance is bliss they say.

 
In my heart and mind,

a voiceless cry reverberates:

“To hell with sanity!

To Hell with it all!”

and yet here i remain

putting pieces back together again,

trying to make sense of the absurd;

all the cries, all the lies,

all the confusion and deceit,

manipulation – God the drama!

all too bitter sweet,

for my taste, or for any

for that matter.
 
And yet my sanity,

Oh, my sanity,

I know not how,

Remains. 

Blood Bath

“Wake up! you’ve slept in the bath again!” Too much time spent in here, the water froze, like blood run cold. Reaching for the towel makes it no easier feat. Static, towel wrapped around the body, I stand, waiting for it to absorb every droplet, one by one. Getting dressed is such a tedious thing. More so when the blood has to be contained, “don’t stain the carpet !”, the mind exclaims. “Quick! Quick! Before I start playing tricks on you again”.

                                                                           *** 
The tap is running for a hot bath, the music muffles the screams below, isn’t that where they belong? They don’t belong up here with me, in this room. They must be contained. “Stay there! Remain in the kitchen!”. I hear none and do not wish to. Something jars with the sweet notes of song, but the volume persists in overpowering these reverberating cacophonies, and the hand keeps working at the eyebrows, plucking the extra hairs with flimsy tweezers. One, by one, to the beat of the music. A little humming and a little movement at the feet, I can feel footsteps thundering underneath, as like a herd of buffaloes stamping, or the Mandan’s ritual dancing – ha! what a sight that would be. The vibrations too much felt, yet, the eye never flinches a moment. Time for the hot bath, and sink in it.

                                                                            ***

15 minutes have gone past already. Reluctantly, the hand reaches for the towel. Emerging from the bath, warm clothes are worn, the music is turned off and the door opened. Descending the stairs, past the sitting room and the piano on the right hand side underneath the staircase, down the step level, through the arch into the kitchen; someone else has stained the carpets, and the chairs, and the walls, and the breakfast table – 
                                                                            ***

I realized I was sinking when my face no longer felt the edges of the water against its skin. I’ve been at it again, look what I’ve done. I’m drenched in my own blood again, as if I wasn’t tired enough already, but what else is there to do but to rid me of this stain again? Rose red. Wash it out, wash it out, and off my skin. And pray, this doesn’t happen again.

                                                                             ***
She’s talking shit again, she’s getting inside my head. I know I shouldn’t bother but how can I not? Have I not ears and intelligence? I hear some noises from below, my headache’s growing too strong. Music will make it better. Yes, that’s a good idea, music will make it better. Shut the noises out, shut them out. 
                                                                             ***
Rocking in my chair, I put my pen down, the work is done.