this poem is not your usual eulogy written on days that didn’t feel like home but more of love letters written on wet papers to unsent addresses.
this poem is my search for answers as 19-year-old Noor sits on the stool chanting “qubool Hai” as her body tries to continue breathing while her mind is lingering in English class wondering whether Romeo and Rosalind were more of love stories that didn’t find proper endings and Juliet was more of a balm to his aching heart rather than the first rays of sunshine in his prison cell?
This is an ode to Raghav whose back is covered with scars, a gift from his baba, as he still tries to sneak off some food for a homeless Zoya, his first love/last mistake?
a poem where I don’t hide from the stranger in the mirror, caressing the bruises on my cheeks, a testimony to the fate of daughters fighting for their right to smile in a family that considers my birth to be a result of past life sins, what if I am more of devil that death marched even on the fall of maple leaves and autumn blooms?
what if we are all homeless children, (castaways), searching for love in the name of shelters and was poetry only the language of grievers? I know this is not a happy poem but you see I have forgotten how to spell h-ap-p-i-n-e-s-s, it seems foreign rolling off my tongue, you could sell me love and I would still die begging, is it possible to ruin a soul that has been wrecked by saccharine promises that were more of rewritten apologies written while watching sunsets through tainted visions in a broken city?
Akshita is a 16 year old high school student from Kolkata.
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