People, places and movies, they've always taught me how love is like the sun in summers, raging and passionate but my love, my love was gentle like the soft zephyr of winters. My love, it was delicate, it was all about falling like my whole sky falling in his oceanic eyes or like the drops of rain tapping roofs to beat the rhythm of 90s mixtapes. I've loved him like a soul with bruises and wrinkles love memories and I'll love him till I won't be able to etch him, anymore, in my poetries. ~Purva
I want to shed off my skin, as i often make myself someone's home, and they do worst injuries to me, give my hand for help, and they squeeze my neck, despite knowing it all, i do the same again.
I want to shed off my skin, for it hurts, for it always makes me to taste the grave, for i don't want to remain absurd, for i don't want to be abandoned but found for i want to survive, i want to live.
I want to shed off my skin, but i don't know how. Do you?
Here, aunt jennifer is an old lady maybe of sixties, who was unhappy of her marriage, she was dominated by her husband, she just silently suffered all the oppressions(this is one of the poems of class 12 English textbook)
Marble floor - indicates the holiness of a marriage,
It's the ilk of me to see you with a broken back but this is harsh. My intents breakdown and howl, to save you. If I hear you cry, I'm going to swallow you whole. Your voice makes its way through my ears, the softly uttered curse I soused my veins in. The immoral cue, you stink of, before forging a road through the back alley contrived on my shoulders.
The pith of your lips on my neck massifs - a dying thing over a dead thing. The gradual movement of the stars, this isn't how it's supposed to be, what do I do with the remains? How do I die in the hallway if not over the white sheets and charcoal mist? I want my hands to be silvered, to be blackened.
My hands embowed in the burns of my hurt. I can't hold my bones when you ask me to hug. I don't want to love it the way it is, if not with your eyes open, your chest under my face and dusk dying. This death daubes me a disguise; you as the straggled thin moonlit and I-a strangled martyr. Life ditches your breathe and I submit mine to the moon, barehanded. My fragility is in your hands and sanity on your fingers and you flicker your sins off every moment and call it salvation.
I hear my stubs straining under my ashes, mourning under my ashes, for me, for my rage, for the death that never waited. There are so many stubborn wishes drinking your name to have you back, to have me back. There's no way I'm not asserted dead, if you are the one who is dying,
There's a voice that belongs to me, it looks like a hazel cuckoo that'll cocoon itself within a brick red window and white doors, thirty two, to breed silence until the apocalypse has taken birth. Maybe that's why I've grown up in a crows nest trying to become some scientist or doctor when my eyes followed a different sky and my dreams fell down, broken and hurt.
There's a voice that belongs to me, I can hear it's footsteps slowly creeping in through the backdoor of my throat awaiting to be unfettered like rainbows escaping from clouds. I want to sway little more in the garden of daisies and unwonted desires but acceptance is as much unwelcome as the warbling grief that leaves its audience in longing howls.
There's a voice that belongs to me that may sound like the rustle of leaves while wearing shroud of kindness or a scream of thunderclap on empty steets when the shrouds are shredded off, it's a sword of courage somedays on other days it's a flower of hope, but I'm afraid when it becomes the weapon for rebellion at times when I let all the uncomfortable silence hatch. ~Purva
To avoid any confusion, I want to clarify that my son is alive and well. He has relocated across the country to expand his business and start the next chapter of his life. The last line is meant to convey that he won't ever live under the same roof with us again, which has proven terribly difficult for me to accept.