TRIGGER WARNING: MENTION OF DEATH
(I) Lately, death has been winning wars in my poems without knowing how on some days my poetry is holding together a broken house where each day music is aloud ,anxiety screams the lyrics, and the colour of music is blue.
(II) Why is it that I am able to describe death better in my poems than I can describe myself?
(III) My poetry has known blood, bodies living only to turn into stardust and boneless hands reaching out, shivering
Turning into cold ice than it has known
Warm hugs and sunshine which feel like homemade food on a winter afternoon.
(IV) She knows how to hammer rusted doors and lock the ones which smell of burned ashes and tragedy. We have a lot in common and maybe that’s the reason I keep coming back to her.
(V) But on most days, my poetry is the broken home where rooms are filled with cries of it screaming for not being poetic enough.
(VI) I am not good enough of a home
To nurture the screams into memories which are discussed and laughed off in family gatherings.
(VII) This is a poem where I am hoping
Death doesn’t win except this might not be a poem.
-Vanika Wahi
Instagram: @vanikawahii
