The kitchen smells like a secret I forgot to bury.
A peach gone soft, skin splitting like a bad promise.
The fruit flies know something I don’t;
they’re the last priests of a dying faith,
and they’re waiting for me to leak.

I tell myself I’m healing,
but last night I dreamt I had to eat your heart to survive.
It tasted like burnt sugar and nail polish remover.
I woke up gasping,
your name soldered to the roof of my mouth
like a curse I didn’t mean to cast.

I call it the trick of wanting:
how I keep looking for your fingerprints in places you never touched,
how I flinch when someone says my name in the dark,
how I let the mirror watch me shatter
and pretend I’m a stained glass window.

Here’s the part I shouldn’t post:
I liked it when you lied to me.
I liked it when you said this isn’t about love
and I let you mean it’s about power.

The fruit flies keep coming.
I pretend they’re a sign from God.
I pretend they’re angels. Or demons.
Never both.
I pretend they’re a reminder that sweetness
is just another word for rot.
I pretend the buzzing is the sound of my name-
fermenting in your guts,
putrefying in your chest,
decomposing in your memory like abandoned fruit.

I know I shouldn’t write this.
But I do.
Because I want you to see it.
Because I want you to flinch.

Because I want you to know:
I am the girl who would eat your heart if I could.
I would peel it open with my teeth,
lick the blood off my lips,
smile like a god in a red dress,
and call it love.

And you’d believe me.

What is beauty?
Which is pleasant to the eye
Which makes us forget who we are ,for a moment
Which makes us escape reality
Which is sublime
Which makes us feel closer to divine
Which makes our eyes bigger
Which gives us blissful tears
                                                        -Sandeep Kaushal

The inevitable death,
once, only momentarily, dies—
just for a pause,
like a blink in open eyes—
then passes this
whooping, precious,
deathless garland
over to her.

Just in one single sip,
you drank it in—
that painstakingly unique,
imperishable elixir of being.

The timeless time sprawls,
spotless and fine,
across the ages—
echoing through undying rhymes,
tuned into countless tunes
on this deathless-dead skeleton
that breathes, that hums:

"Alhamdulillahi Rabbil Aalameen."

The note before the sun sings,
in the Night of Creations—
within, and without.
Translation...
is never enough.

The nexus of time
burst across the ages.
The dew left the rose—
not to fall,
but to stir
the ocean’s deep heart.
Credible, nature!

The blue peahen of the sky
scurries down
into that innermost drop—
it flows in the soul,
in a thousand and one rhythms,
in the swell of song,
a perfect, complete drop.
As if sound itself remembered its beginning—
The melody-nymph,
in the orchestra of the sea,
lifts the flute to her lips.
Oh, that first music—
mind-blowingly perfect.

There — in that single drop —
floats the sea,
floats the full moon.
A blue lotus shadow
rests on the ocean’s deepest floor.

Clothed in blue upon blue,
sky-hued —
forever shading the air.
Her panache, midstream,
remains out of reach.

Who could ever touch
that forever peerless ******,
that numinous, untouchable water-nymph?

Into the vast,
sea-wide goblet
of Tahura’s wine,
all the thirsty warriors
drowned deep.
Even time took a deep breath of Ma,
knowing not what was coming.
Then you arrived — wondrous Shaaqi,
from the far side of the eternal shore.

Measured for just one sip,
Your Highness—
you poured it, indeed:
all that is death,
made immortal sweet.

Start to finish,
all in all,
everything came
to soothe the eyes —
even the grave-dirt
was placed in your hands.
A single fistful of loosened soil…
You became life
to this death-struck soul,
yet never did you let it slip
into life’s final flow.

How can I ever forget you —
in life?
Or in death?

I’ve died so many quiet deaths—
shedding selves that were never wrong,
just no longer true.

Each one carried me
as far as it could
before laying itself down
so I could rise.

Now that I’ve found healing,
I see it was always there—
a quiet knowing,
guiding me forward
through the dark.

But now I wonder—
was it the knowing that shaped the path,
or the path that shaped the knowing?
Did I become who I was meant to be,
or did I simply arrive
where I’d always been?

When spirit called, I chose the flame,
To walk the earth and bear a name.
But did I see the depths ahead—
The nights so dark, the tears I’d shed?

To feel the ache that breaks apart
The boundless edges of the heart.
To lose myself, to fall, to grieve—
And still, in silence, not to leave.

Like stars that fall yet do not die,
Like wings that form before they fly,
I sank into the chrysalis—
A holy womb of pain and bliss.

Yes — I knew. I heard the song.
That pulled my soul where I belong.
To feel what angels only dream:
The raw divine in each extreme.

The first solution was to leave my name behind.
Venture forth nameless and light the way divine.
Walk forth through the shadow veils.
Let your soul set its light sail.  

Let the winds of truth take you past the expanse of shadow.
Let the lost ones see your lantern in the lost meadow.  
Become the balefire that lights their map home.
Put an end to their aimless roam.

unconsciously self
inflicted pain so divine
angels weep with joy

the room of tears was waiting for someone suited for grace,
for bridging the gap between our wounds
a dream of togetherness filled with white smoke
the joy winged and grounded
as the immanence of the divine
tears roll with a new hope to find generosity
in the human form

When I awaken
When I hear the weave
Of Egyptian cotton
Rise and fall
                       Around your torso
When you wrap yourself
                       As an Ibis
                       Offer yourself
                       Become eternal
Whilst we worship each other
                       As Pharaohs
             The sun will continue to burn