Parasitic Memories 

With slimy, cold hands it’s gonna touch my back, make the hair on my neck stand

and then slither up my spine

Trailing up, it’ll grow like vines

On my tiny frame 

And suck out all the life 

Out of me. 

Your memories. 


Radio Catharsis 

I twisted the knob of the radio

“Hit me up with the sad songs.” I said. 

After an ad about the latest 3BHK flats 

And an update about an upcoming soap serial, 

They finally hit a tune that 

Resonated with my heart and head. 

This is where they say

That margins lie inside of us

That we rouse the decay 

Of which we’re so afraid of. 

I sigh, and let it play. 

Whilst humdrums of the day, 

That grey cab ride to office, 

The way you said you’re getting bored with the sight of my dull eyes, 

The way I shook my head and smiled, 

Flashed before those very eyes. 

I sometimes live in shadows 

Of my own creation. 

I don’t need saving, 

I don’t need a vacation.  

All I want is a little home cooked pop corn 

With an overdose of cynicism and a sip of boredom, 

Optimism can knock on my door tomorrow. 

And maybe,

If it’s lucky, 

I’ll open up. 

I am me, no more. 

Why have I been doing this for a while 

Giving you wings, 

Watching mine wither away. 

Why have I been doing this at all

Building your bones, 

And feeling mine decay. 

You soar through the skies, 

I just follow the wind.   

You stand tall, 

I can barely stand still. 

All in vain. 

All in love. 

You don’t know who I am.

I am the one who gave you life, 

Although, I’m left with none for myself. 

For I am still here. 

But I am me, no more. 

Lonely bed, crowded head. 

Lonely bed

Crowded head

Must it all 

Come to such an end

Once a bliss


a cold abyss. 

When I was lost

Your eyes were the light

Were the light. 

How did we die

Why did we die, 

And here I lie. 

Saw my Mother’s hands today. 

Saw my mother’s hands today. 

Hands that’ve molded me,  

Hands that’ve felt me grow. 

Each day, 

Hands that ran after my care, 

Ditching manicures and nail paints, 

To feed me, to hold me, 

To braid my hair. 

I saw my mother’s hands today. 

They weren’t pretty. They weren’t soft, or smooth, dainty or slender. 

They were rather tough, and strong, busy and warm, sure, with specs of rough and wrinkly skin. 

But they still were glowing, you see. They held a beauty of their own. 

And after all these years,

These rough hands still feel silky. 

These tough hands still feel smooth and soft. 

These hands wear their wrinkled skin like dainty drapery. 

These hands look beautiful, and I look at them with awe,

I look at them with pride and say, 

These hands belong to my mom.

P. S. Sending love to all the mothers around the world. You are beautiful. 


That year, 

Neither did the Spring last a full month, 

Nor did you. 

And I’ve always liked Springs.

How dare you make it take your side, 

It’s as if you both conspired 

Against my heart,

That had just started to bloom.

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