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  • my_cup_of_poetry 24w

    @say_me_krish This was born after reading ya :')

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    There are days when I am b r o w n, when my vagina bleeds red and the sky rains blue, when I drape in my mother's lightest saree and walk a little too carefully to my workplace.
    Light fabric dries quickly in rain and brown ensures that no hush-hush stain shall be visible to the public eye. Perhaps you were wrong if you believed that the distance between a woman's home and workplace is measured in kilometres. No, it is measured in courage.

    There are days when I am y e l l o w, when I wake up too early, cook myself some poha and chutney and decide not to throw away the roses I received last day!
    I had started journaling back in school and my journal is all about women. Women who ran away from their homes at midnight, women who travelled miles to meet their lovers, women who waited for too long, women who love sharing stories and women who are stories.

    Then there are days when I am b l u e, when my sky is devoid of birds, when I paste dry dandelions in my diary, scribble small death notes and aimlessly look for a home with yellow marigolds in the front yard!
    There are few pictures pinned close to my study table. In one of the picture, Elisa Lam is smiling. I smile back and tell her that I will live, travel alone and return home. Did you know that each time a woman goes missing, a thousand women are told to be afraid?

    I rant a lot. Let's stop here.

    ~

    "You are so colorful", I often tell the rainbow.
    "Not more than you", it always replies.

    ©my_cup_of_poetry

    ________

    Poha and chutney: snack
    Elisa Lam: 21-year-old Canadian woman who mysteriously disappeared in 2013 while she was travelling across the US and was later found dead.

  • my_cup_of_poetry 25w

    #leftc
    @say_me_krish @inara__ thanks for helping me stay consistent :")

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    The day you left,
    I puked few poems
    and tucked your
    love letters with
    white lilies inside
    my September journal.
    ~
    I discarded the
    possibility of you
    and me devouring
    leftover songs
    and lavenders
    under a moonlit sky.
    ~
    The day you left,
    I killed you a little
    and died a lot.

    ©my_cup_of_poetry

  • my_cup_of_poetry 25w

    @writersnetwork thank ya :")��

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    Perhaps you were right
    when you said that I
    won't be able to catch you
    when you fall. You are old,
    wrinkled and thin, you are
    fifty five and you keep
    dozens of medicines
    on the bed table,
    you walk slowly and
    stand with support but
    you know what, you
    are still too heavy.
    Your bones are stuffed with
    kilograms of anger and
    pride. All of my spring had
    died beneath the weight
    of those fickle emotions.

    Did you let me live
    enough to save you from
    dying?

    Perhaps you were right
    when you said that I
    won't be able to catch you
    when you fall.

    ©my_cup_of_poetry

  • my_cup_of_poetry 26w

    some days
    I am a green leaf,
    a coy daughter,
    I hold onto the arms
    of my home
    and smile all Spring.

    some days
    I am an autumn leaf,
    a spoiled child,
    I colour my hair
    in shades of
    orange and yellow,
    I question curfew
    timings and
    refuse to smile.

    most days
    I am an invisible
    childhood trauma

    and everyday I am
    a damaged craft.

    ©my_cup_of_poetry

  • my_cup_of_poetry 28w

    How much tbsp of sugar do you take?

    ~

    Interpretation: There's a myth that goes like " you put odd tablespoons of sugar in the drink of those who you hate " , so the first two paragraphs hold that concept and in the final lines speaker says that she puts odd tablespoons of sugar in drink for herself too since she hates herself. Even though she has grown up but she hasn't unlearned the myth.

    ( added because @starrdust advised me to ^_^ )

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    Tablespoon

    I was little,
    naive as lamb,
    when mother
    taught me
    –odd tablespoons
    of sugar are for
    those we hate and
    even for those we
    love–
    I was little.
    I learned.

    3 tbsp of sugar
    for the uncle who
    slipped his hand
    on my thighs.
    4 tbsp of sugar
    for the boy who
    painted pink sky
    on my left cheek.
    3 tbsp of sugar
    for the father who
    visited us like
    thunders in
    clear blue sky.
    It became a ritual,
    you know.

    I have grown up.
    I have not unlearned.
    3 tbsp of sugar for
    my own self. Cheers.

    ©my_cup_of_poetry

  • my_cup_of_poetry 29w

    my wildflowers in your closet,
    your departure in my front pocket
    and our poems in a stranger's diary.

    ©my_cup_of_poetry

  • my_cup_of_poetry 30w

    Title credit : @thelazymitochondrion :")

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    Equanimity

    Talk about grief,
    wrap up yourself from
    rooms that didn't bring
    you sunlight, walk away
    from windows that
    stopped the winds and
    if being a bird is too
    tiresome befriend
    the cows. Stop, stare
    and rest.

    ©my_cup_of_poetry

  • my_cup_of_poetry 31w

    @jeelpatel Wrote :")

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    Poems.

    You and I
    write poems
    when the sky
    turns grey, when
    sunflowers
    die in our backyards,
    when mirrors lose
    their silver, when
    wine cans get
    empty and when
    women in our
    homes go silent.

    You and I
    write poems
    because pink
    sky reminds
    us of our first kiss,
    because we had
    walked too long
    holding flowers
    in our fragile hands,
    because we left
    too much pain
    unattended,
    because peace
    has left our homes
    and because
    therapy is too
    expensive.

    ©my_cup_of_poetry

  • my_cup_of_poetry 33w

    Buildings that don't hide their scars
    either become ancient forts or modern
    poets.

    ©my_cup_of_poetry

  • my_cup_of_poetry 34w

    Sunsets.

    Sunsets are women
    trying to paint themselves
    aesthetic with a vermilion
    'bindi' on forehead and silence
    pinned to their earlobes.
    Night walks in drunk,
    blows away the candles
    and impregnates her with
    chaos. By midnight she
    pulls a poetry out of her
    vagina , looks at its tender
    eyes and smiles like
    Sunrise.

    Sunsets are naive women
    in love and Sunrises are
    mothers cradling poetries
    with a smile.


    ©my_cup_of_poetry