black glassy eyes staring back at mine.
double reflections. doppelganger.
a hawk with spread wings,
attacking a nest. Its claws arched
aimed at a chick.
Stuffed and basted like it's Christmas without the carols,
it is still.
unmoving in the glass.
the chick, too, is frozen in time. or fear.
or stitches or reflections.
crown of feathers stuffed in my pillow,
I think of the hawk at night.
that chick.
those talons and that eye.
that little eye
staring back at mine as if to say;
save me.
I cannot.

I sat there like a museum of moments,
a mosaic of emotions
as she dissected my personas
and did an autopsy of my past.

Memories climbed my spine
from the forgotten attics in my heart
with every question, she asked.

But my tongue was a drought
and my voice box was a rust box,
as the child in me
was bullied into quietude.

My edgy, messy and raw memories
molded my perception,
rewrote my interpretation
and deepened my experience.

There was underlying vengeance
as the layers of fabricated scabs were scrapped
to disclose the deeply entrenched, tender emotional scars.

As the present, struck a cord
my limbs would turn into cement
as the echo would bring me back
to the endless street of time
and I would be dragged
through open wounds within me.

The pain would seep in the nooks
and crannies of my soul.
At every jibe and remark
one more part of my flesh
would be chiseled away.

The sky would join in my sorrow
as the clouds gathered like sheep
summoned by a shepherd
and then we would begin to weep
our unresolved issues
onto tissues.

I revisited the bathrooms
that became sanctuary in high school
with its gossip soaked walls
and tear-stained countertops.

I dream of the people
that have lost their way in my memory;
a fabrication of nostalgia.
But the tranquility of waves,
can’t even erase the memories of their wrongdoings.

My past engraved itself
into my muscle memory
ingrained its teachings
and matured my sensibility.

The dim shadows that would creep
And the blues that I would pour
are becoming budding flowers in my chest.

Weaving from the same web
I was entangled in
building from the same sorrows
I was drowning in.

I began connecting,
understanding its stem
stitching my memories.

I write for my younger self
who felt silenced and erased by the world.

I shape all the tainted pieces of memories
into art and paint shades of my past
as each is soaked in a memory.

I craft subconscious relief,
breathing memories
into 6 alphabets
that were strung into paragraphs,
beginnings and end.

I reached out to corners
to bring out
sunrises and sunsets
and reignite dying embers
as I de-spell the damage that silently reverterbrates through generation.

I find home in my skin
and love myself, whole;
Shadows, crevice and all.

We visited an art museum today
“The Guggenheim” with it’s white spiraling architecture
I felt slightly cultured as I flipped through a book detailing an artist whose last name I vaguely recall started with a Q
Conveniently forgetting the very reason for my presence in that room being to charge my phone
Feeling educated as I recognize the names Matisse, Lautrec from my brief intro to art history courtesy of our overly enthusiastic design teacher
Basking in my elegance, taking petit little bites, of a macaroon in a cafe outside the museum
...Before noisily slurping my blood red ice tea

I want to fall in love in an art museum,
and gaze at paintings,
and see myself through them;

                 dancing between the lines

       singing among the colours

day at the museum
passing people
some with intent
who will notice
slight bow
eyes flutter
do you notice?
choose
who
chooses
you
clairvoyance
all while
black locks bounce
blending away
figment of imagination