Megha Saha
At five o’clock my right elbow grazes the wall And I tell myself, do not make this about the wall How many layers of skin has it claimed? Not many Take-out, customer service, wannabe Ikea fixtures, untimely Polaroids- everything I ever wanted under one roof And on some days, stuffed into my backpack- On some days, you will be dragged out of your hole By your foot with your legs unshaven, still-
I was in a mood, tossed myself into the back of a Grimy eatery- hated it, tossed myself into my bed Like a half-eaten bird tossed into the sink- it blows, How long have I been using these words? How long Have I been color-coding my outfits with ‘do you hate The shape of my face?’ and ‘hey, I can gulp it down but Still joke about it’- the pile of clothes-chair is real, the hair In the sink- won’t budge on its own
Everything else about a twenty-year old mind- questionable All the leg-room wanting, gyrating, texts bombarding, cosmic apologies- Just a phase- and I sculpted apple cores with my teeth- Avoided the middle and maintained a record of things not to be Meddled with- but, picture this- in a week, in a month you will Be completely distracted- covered in scum, sweat, grass, Or maybe whisked away in a bottomless sail-boat or lying still Like a bag of frozen peas with the apple cores strewn all over