Run-Off At The .docx

A poem. A rant. Call it what you want.

Mother, stop talking. Haven’t you
Realized that the nightingale isn’t
Singing anymore? Wings stopped
Becoming a metaphor when we
Found out about poverty and hair fall.
Something always feels just a little bit
Wrong. The difference between wanting
To die and wanting to live is how much
Your head loves the pillow. I am friends
With the moon without having seen it in
So long. That says a lot, doesn’t it?
Mother, mother, we don’t always need
To talk to tell the world how fucked we
Are. Try looking into my eyes without
Breaking down at seeing what you
Have created. Your tears evaporate at
The thought of my sadness. How do
I tell you I don’t want to live without
Making it sound like I want to die? Take
Me back into your womb. Spread my
Genes in the Ganga and rise out the
Misery I’ve inherited. I stopped
Understanding who I am from the
Moment I saw father cry. Look at me,
Mother. Stop talking. The future seems
Like a rusted lake filled with dying sheep.
Everything’s always the same, isn’t it?
Broken souls high on routine and sorrow.
I’m a phoenix addicted to death. So my
Hand fucks me because I don’t have to
Look into my eyes as I cum. I eat when
I’m hungry, and I can’t seem to get past
That. But what about the loneliness,
Mother? What do I do with the statistics
You quote while telling me that arranged
Marriages work better? What do I tell the
Friend who says I play the notes of a
Beating heart? That I’m both the sunflower
And the grave? Mother, I’ve been working
At an office where the company policy is
Depression. I can smile while I’m sad and
Mean it. I can no longer tell laziness apart
From melancholy. Do you want me to
Talk less painfully? Does truth-talk make
You tremble? I’m a black cloud without rain,
I’m the coal that forgot to become the
Diamond. I’m stained glass in the hands
Of a widow scratching her skin to find
The vein. Do you understand? Sad eyes
Are often unblinking. My hands feel like
They have no use without a body to touch.
I think about violence before making love
To myself. I hold my hands together but
I’ve forgotten how to pray. Mother,
What more do I have to say? When the
Next hair falls or the next acne pops,
I’ll write another bad poem. Till then,
Mother, I’ll move around the house with
Unblinking eyes. You can stop talking, now.

Unblinking eyes. You can stop talking.