It’s sometimes strange
When people ask me
With a tinge of bewildered horror
‘How did you start writing?’
‘Why do you write such things?’
And the syllable of ‘such’
Spoken with such nonchalance
And veiled disgust
As if it’s a disease.
A disease that would eat me
If I didn’t stop vomiting these words.
I want to say
For, for me
Writing has never been a hobby
A need to pen down insignificant words
That never spoke to me
In order to get into the ‘Poet’ club.
It is the unanswered phone call of my mother
When I lay in my bed
With a razor in my hand
Or the gulping down of napthalene balls
With some water
Just because it smelled good.
Sometimes it’s the haphazardly thrown words
That I drank for breakfast
Or the unending winter in my heart
That never found a quilt,
Writing is the mixture
That I sprinkle on my ever gaping wounds
To fill them with something.
It is the thread
That I use to stitch my heart with
Everytime it breaks.
Sometimes it’s frustrating
When I can’t find words
To sprinkle on my wounds
Or when they don’t knit themselves
To form a thread for the stitch.
It’s then that they find it stranger
And say that
To worms scurrying about in my room
On my blankets,
To the constant chirping of birds in my house
That’ve made a home in my abode
(A place I could never call home)
And to the incessant tappings and poudings at the door.
For they never got around to seeing what I was
When I wrote.
So they murmur in my mother’s ear
That I’m choking on pain
And self demolition is the path
That her daughter is treading on.
For they never found my heart
Or the cages I hide
Or they’d have declared me dead.
That they never got around to finding me
Or they’d have run away
And their worries
Falling like honey on me
Would have given way to disgust.
That they find solace in knowing
That I’m too broken to be fixed.