when I reached the age of reason I hit the ground,
running. the thought flits
across compact mirror smudged from years of overuse &
abandon, left behind
in purse bottoms and backpacks every time I switch up my style &
move on to something:
new/ fresh / else.  

a glance into glass &
I'm transported: a babe on white lambskin,
a second-hand nostalgia never wholly mine.
a missing, another memory removed,
a down-to-the-wire tally
added to the roster, unexpectedly
the emotional prodigy, ostracized
alongside destined veracity: as in my absolute
devotion to                                                               ­            TRUTH!
the time skip, a box-out, a blackout, a kindness.
a comfort over the desk chair where homework            completes itself
after countless 'mixtape playlists' limewired maniacally
alphabetized, rearranged & revised until dawn/

another decade/chapter: a bookworm,
a blockout, a maneuver 'round roadblock,
a machination, a manipulation, a deadening, a defeat,
an assistant Mother only a child
self, the intrigue... yet

here I am, a spectacle,  
a miracle, a smashing, a light on an island out at sea,
an accident, a ripening survived.

can I trust myself. to dive in. for/by myself?
when I lift the stretch of lambskin from an atticked brown box,
a painted porcelain plate hits the ground,
shattered.

A gallery full of flawless art.
The colorful walls are lined with portraits.
My canvas face observes patiently.

The drones buzz around the room.
Stinging, they leave no honey.
Jagged lines, a black and white visage.

Swarms amass on the colored sheets,
Desperate for a hit of gratifying nectar.
My crude gaze has none to offer.

The incessant humming is deafening.
As I hang there, suspended, in neglect.
The sun sets; wasps return to their hives.

The artist who drafted me chose stark lines,
And hung me unfinished in that dark corner,
Reminding us of apathy for works in progress.

~
Here is an assertion
and showiness
in the expanse
of white skin – from her
high forehead,
down her graceful neck,
shoulders, and arms.
Although the black
of her dress is bold,
it is also deep, recessive,
and mysterious.

He stalks her
as one does a deer,
his palette composed of
lead white, rose madder,
vermilion, viridian,
and bone black.
A dash of light rose
over the former
gloomy background,
you see, and
the élancée figure
shows to much
greater advantage.

Her body boldly
faces forward while
her head is turned in profile.
A profile of both
assertion and retreat.
The table provides support,
and echoes her
curves and stance.
One strap of her gown
has fallen down
her right shoulder,
suggesting the possibility
of further revelation;
one more struggle
and the lady will be free.

Everything converges to
imply a distant sexuality
under the professional
control of the sitter,
rather than offered for
the viewer's delectation.
Her untamed wilderness
remains unseen.
~

There is a girl, and she doesn't believe in the existence of god.

She once told her best-friend that if there is something like BIRTH and DEATH, then there can't be anything like heaven and hell. However, she uses both HEAVEN and HELL as metaphors in her poems for pointing at the good and the bad while
wondering what distinguishes a devil from an angel.

Once someone asked her- “Do you believe in the power of DESTINY?”.
She didn't answer the question and ended up writing a whole essay on the value of HARD WORK while reflecting upon the lives of many who are working hard since ages without any fruition.

One day her grandfather told her that she should have at least some amount of FAITH in her life, even if she doesn't BELIEVE in worshiping any sculptures or images. She told him that the only thing she believes in is his selfless love for her.

She has a closet,
and it's full of secrets and MYSTERIES,
the secret letters of pain and grief, of existential crisis and restless nights.
They were written to someone named as GOD by her ten-year-old self.

Every night she joins her hands and closes her eyes to make a wish and PRAY for the well-being of
the boy who claims to be in love with her.
And every morning when I wake up to look at her face in the mirror, all I could see in front of my eyes is a portrait of an ATHEIST in love.

-Prachi

Her eyes, posts
of bare hazel clique,
survey me in this chair.
Her hair gathers in rude
thunderheads by the ear,
black about the field.
Her engraved mouth
is crowded with oblivion
and serendipity, beckons
a foreshortened hand
that warbles with filaments
of anticipation.
The aspect of her neck
brims with motion -
a swan on flat water
chases the smeared
crumbs of evening.
The beach of her *******,
her cheek, her blush bough brow,
Her knee, in repose,
sustains a milk leg - 
Her face, gathered 
to watercolor thought -
And behind it all, a mind
rejoicing in the sun-
O portrait, be glad
you have no memories -
with every new pair of eyes
you have a new lover,
a new lover, a new lover.

The synapse in which both of You and I meet.
Though, no longer can I tell where I end and You begin.
An enduring connection of which escape is dubious.
Inevitability remains a common guest,
A parasitic fiend that clenches control
As You and I laze, nonchalant of the approaching villain
That of whom strides quicker, grows stronger, and wills to linger.
A darkened silhouette against our brush plain.  
Finally: It conquers us, You and I,
And as It reveals itself I see It's face - one of a cryptic familiarity.
The Unknown presents It's dominance with an otherworldly grin.
In that moment, I see what looms so maliciously.

I see that after all, It was truly You,
Rather than some unnameable Thing
Or a being higher than I,
My sunset plain was merely broken by You,
And You alone.

body blazing, he roams
with flames for feet, drags earth
behind his back, as in magma
melting mountains, as in moon
pulling, seas shifting; skull swinging
open
        like windows
                             at dawn—

all gloaming, sun slept on the satin sheets
of his mind; make merry the morning
melody till it awakes, it wakes—

he weeps, tears trickling like candle-wax
dripping from its flicker. he flares
& firmanents fall through the fumes,

bruised, blinded
—burning bush for his
banquet.

ash and cinder know not
his swelter. he bore the heat now
he becomes the fire.