An obstinate yearning

Yearning picks at bruises

slow slender movements

scars on each petal, my

memory, still fragile and

recovering an en bloc

extraction of my innards


Self medication heals

clumsily, it tranquilizes

breaks news, hovering

as petals fall like corpses

into their last piles, breath

devoured by a crass earth


Balms permeate a calm

wrapping into habitation

slowly, a formalization of

mourning, petals in bowls

of silence, measure loss

more adequately than pills


Sorrow has a nutty obstinacy

a fullness that evades tears

but brings a strange warmth

to the stillness of presence

and a nagging, ache that

whispers of being undead




The drowning

The drowning

I became


I breathed


I learned


I dreaded


I regretted


I brimmed with attention

I listened

Water urged me to put my ear to songs

Of sea shells, sea urchins, sea shores

They sung on repeat a human checklist of caution

They begged me to become water and choke on myself, for one day

No plastic straws in my turtle noses

No riff raff from beaches in my whale bellies

No hazardous bottles of party waste

No clouds that bled poison in rain

No human discharge polluting my bed

No leaking pipes feeding oil to my fish

No detergent toxics creating dead zones

No devastating impact on mating routines

No sunscreen eating my coral architecture

No lonely deaths to my beautiful jellyfish

No debris disturbing my wind patterns

I became water

I became water

I drowned


TSL prompt inspired – Whispering waves

Count your age


Age to me is about maturity

Sometimes wisdom, of light

Age to me is about sleeplessness

Sometimes reckoning, with self

Age to me is about wonder

Sometimes questions, about everything

Age to me is about spring cleaning

Sometimes of clothes, mostly memories

Age to me is about leading prayers

Sometimes space, within chants

Age to me is about wobbliness

Sometimes palpable, in handclasps

Age to me is about large humility

Sometimes in acceptance, of the human

Age to me is about prismatic hope

Sometimes purpose, of a daily dawn


There are always options

2A873DAE-5EBB-4BF2-88F6-530D878FB136A letter about my options, to me

5 ways you could die

You could die at once

Or maybe you will vaporize

Into loss, like a spluttering

Apology, just a bookmark

Of your usual daily self

Option 1

You could die

Shot in the head

With no time for thoughts

Admittedly no formality

Fuck you, your last words

Bloody hell this is happening

Option 2

You could die

Announced across miles

Remembered in both homes

In submission to homesickness

where birthed, seeded, found

where burned, dispersed, practiced

Option 3

You could die

In dilation to cancer

Tricked into emptiness

Swallowed deep into pain

Dangling formality of skin shards

Chronic wreckage of complications

Option 4

You could die

A constant full stop

Weightless into sleep

Incrementally be less

You just a hiccup of me

Apologetic to my Alzheimer’s

Option 5

You could die

By a heart in arrest

You want to embrace

Just like he felt, that day

you will your sinews to drench

into his last moments, ending


you will walk

into the doorway

of closure

of certainty



The Significant League

Prompt 21 – thirdmonthofprompts

again and again and again


oh ma, I am numb

I am numb, a shadow

no matter how I hug my knees

numbed since the day I swallowed

many forced desires, startled silences

sometimes the clock forgets to chime

days dare to hurtle into nights, I

sit drenched, palms down, flight ready

in a corner behind a dead door

the footsteps of the day, tense

and too loud, predators wait

I sit wooden, still always waiting

waiting for days, nights, days

sometimes ma, you forget me

I can hear, wait in suspense

maa, your last rites in the kitchen

gur with ghee, sizzling hot, pallu tucked

I will always feel the big feast, that night

so delectable, they said as they touched

it had been a feast ma,

it was their feast ma, that night

there were many

many mouths

many hands

many men


two three four five six seven eight nine

I stopped counting, as he bit my finger

in his orgy state of hunger, my finger

was hurting, I stopped counting at

nine, but there were many surly men

uninterrupted butchers, they slept

and snored afterwards, satiated

I bit myself

my bleeding tongue and ran

and ran

and ran

and ran

till I saw the bonfire

it was Lohri, wasn’t it maa?

I love gur with ghee

did you ever, maa did your ever?

get raped as you lay outstretched

did you not sometimes quiver

when he exited his manhood, grunting?

I love gur with ghee, sizzling ash?


Fistful of spices

F73ACFC6-AAD7-412A-9981-B6053DFAD1C6That India , like my home, homeland

her crowning glory sulks today in crisp kahwa leaves, shudders inside kangri embers, she trips into colorful phulkari’s and pagri’s spread out for protection of a rare crop,

and then decides to rest because dilli will always have her heart, she rests only to waken to a city that has sold it’s dill, grows long shadows which grow bigger each night, they swallow pigtailed girls and growl like a forlorn tiger mourning her clan, hide and seek games played at each street and corner; anklet bells drowning as other colored blood gushes through chowks and places,

soon her adolescent restlessness takes her to newer ghats, she had heard stories of elephants who are gods, playful ganeshas who lived and exited homes and hearts in unison moving towards a magnanimous sea; she did not find the ganeshas, they had all immersed into a churning ocean; an ocean that opened a wide ugly mouth to show a stomach lined with the past; but that was the past that is no longer; stomach lined with marigold flowers,orange saafas, green chaddars, tabeez on a black thread twisted knots with a white cotton janeu, the sun erased itself,

India starts to walk southwards and walks and walks and walks to the tip of her body, stands still and weary, adolescence left behind she transitions a decade, decades; a shriveled India stares at a burning horizon, she throws up a fistful of her spices, holi colors crumble into dust, then treads towards the water, treads towards the water, treads towards the water, treads towards the water; slow motion was my favorite part of Amitabh on screen,meanwhile an iconic temple crumbles, she submerges into a glimmering sea, drowning her shroud of anarchy,

she rises in sequel; multihued lotus in the bay of bengal

This India, like my home, homeland

®️©️ kashiana

Embodying womanhood

WhatsApp Image 2017-03-11 at 1.12.53 AMdays

Always in my head, a sense of being distraught

Over- brimmed with one color, an unassuming rust red

Mundane chit chat, litters into feather like afterthoughts

Scribbling screams tethered tight on mental farm stands


A photo collage like experiment, reflecting cacophony

Every square inch, is of a body sucked into vacuums

Calculated planetary moves, leave me a speck in cosmic astronomy

Rendering days into nights, an assemblage of salty atom drops


Candles light up, one for each year of my age

Unlearning seasons, attempts to discard embers into baskets

Become an installation, a garish backdrop to a painted stage

Sharing an affinity, with my demons secret tactics


Embodying womanhood

Like a leech to the walls of my lungs

Embodying womanhood

In the sores of my incurable tongue

Embodying womanhood

Breathing flames makes it easy to succumb

Embodying womanhood

Into a debris of embers that hum

Embodying womanhood