It’s a normal day, ink pouring in pores of my skin, staining blue veins. It’s okay. It’s
Just my thoughts smeared in the heel of my palm. Smudges of warmth swallowing words, swallowing worlds I’d put out to the world, swallowing verbs and herds of wallowing words I’d just learnt, disturbing the curves and swirls of rehearsed words I had worked to note down. It’s just
A metaphor, a mockery of my ambling, rambling thoughts rattling in the cage of my brain, the scrambling babbling thoughts in my head remaining maimed on paper – uncomprehended. They’re all blotched, all splotched and sloshed and washed in the warmth of the heel of my palm – but it’s okay. It’s just a meaningless metaphor anyway, for how my thoughts are best
Left for myself, kept to myself, best left to roam like veins on the skin of myself, the vain remains of my concepts best pressed and impressed and repressed in my flesh – the breadth of my thoughts, suppressed like breaths in a pond, crumbling like bread in the sea of my flesh. My thoughts smudged in the palm of my
Hand me another language. Arabic, Hebrew. Brew me a solution, don’t bruise me with this useless blue
Issue. No, don’t just hand me a tissue to wipe off this mess, don’t assume I can just start afresh and continue. No, don’t hand me a pen – and by the way, red doesn’t make it better, doesn’t help better the letters, it’ll just be a matter of when it happens again, it’ll catch me again, only this time red-handed.