Myriad Musings

Strained

The strain remained, refusing to vanish like a particularly hard-to-dislodge guava seed in my tooth. Pain. Strain. Remain. I played with the words in my head, as though the rhyme would resound laughter amidst the bleakness of a lost battle.

The texts had tumbled, like the slip of a juggler’s hands. Only that the balls now were fired rapidly back at me. I lit the fire and I burnt in it. Every time.

His text would creep in tomorrow, day after. A reminder of the mess. Of what was lost and gone. I’d be forced to put forth another attempt at war but my armoury would be tucked safely under the bed and I’d perhaps be sleeping when his text arrives.

Unwelcome. Unnecessary. A belated ointment for an old wound. A half-hearted rush of concern to make up for the delay in response, as the air would stink of thick, sweaty drops of apology. A stench that we seemed to carry every time we met.

He’d try to plaster the walls he broke and stitch the open wounds, wounds that he opened, sometimes with an intricate compass, other times with a carefully misplaced scythe.

Hatred would gush and love would bubble. I’d multiply the bubbles and send it his way, quick pecks on his indifferent cheeks: Kindness measured, so it’s not too much or too less but just right lest he rejects it for its overwhelming nature.

I’d swallow the hatred and reopen my old wounds, using only scythes with no place for compasses. Scythes he’s given me from unforgettable memories of being pushed into an abyss, always willing to jump, but never wishing for it.

He’s throw tidbits with the air of a man who throws pellets of puffed rice to the desperate fish at sea- waiting, wanting, willing, wishing- and walk away huffily with a puffed up chest, his generosity impressing himself. The sour taste of battle blood would sink my palette into pain and the strain would remain.
Copyright © Roshni Ramanan

 

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Poetry

Picture perfect : Poem

My glowing skin
Hides many pain patches
Carefully concealed

I’ve diminished my bruises
with a deft makeup brush

My delicate stride
Protects boils under my feet

Ringing slaps
silent under my
Silver anklets

Ridges of injustice
Remain unmasked
Under my trendy skirts

Marks of madness
Missed by neon fashions

Shivers zipped safe under
Extra large sweaters

Evidence of blue blows
Lurk under my fingernails

My red handshakes
Hide bloody burns
within intersecting palm lines

Alien thumb prints
Adorned by
Awkwardly angled bangles

The pull of power
Pinned within
Pretty rubber bands

The creases of my cuts
Spring out in my curls
Subtle resilience against soft hits

Feverish injuries
Are folded under my tongue

Salty tears stopped under contact lenses
Pink bruises pinioned under
Porcelain hugs

Muted shrieks surrender
to the rhythms of a cruel clock

My full smiles
Compensate for
Crooked teeth

The band-aid strip
Suckles my swollen wound
Silencing protest
Offering false comfort
Will you please rip it off

So I can scream

Copyright © Roshni Ramanan

My posting has been a little sporadic due to technological and medical issues and may continue to be until the end of June. Thank you for understanding. 

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Myriad Musings

Meeting monsters

 

Image result for pain abstract

I seem to have an inexplicable desire for pain.

More than curiosity. More than fascination. A strange craving, almost.

The way you’d try your hand at a spicier cuisine or experiment with a new hobby, to test your limits.

Perhaps, it’s my ardent interest in Psychology (one of my majors).

Maybe it stems from my belief that I am truly alive when I experience the A-Z of emotions in palpable intensities.

Or is the source subconscious guilt which makes pain feel right, even relieving?

I play with pain, the way a child blows air into balloons until the loud pop!

I am my own rubber band. I fiddle, pull and observe to see how far I can stretch, until the snap.

The breaking point is yet to be found.

Maybe, the reward is in that after feeling gutted, tortured, confused, I can surface up and claim, “That wasn’t so bad.”

We treat certain parts of ourselves as inner graveyards, with unimaginable ghosts.

Meant for paying an occasional, wary visit.

It is freeing to know that the darkness in me is tame in comparison to the illusory demons I suspect I will discover.

Maybe it’s time to invite the monsters under the bed to lay next to us and start a conversation.

You never know. You might just sleep better at night.

Copyright © Roshni Ramanan

 

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