Stretch-marks-on-the-face-of-spring

Aakriti Kuntal/Writings of Aakriti Kuntal

Writings of Aakriti Kuntal

‘ Time collects in the circle of this wound. Here you shall sprout:
full of color, full of vigor, complete as all light. ‘

Mother, I counted your skin
like the ceaseless motion
of tongue assessing the irregularity of jaw

You are a convex liquid armchair
rocking back and forth
time squeezing your lap
Your seeking hands are like lizards,
stagnant, then running
Cerulean eyes, cheeks of crepe
Palm trees circling
the diaphragm
to form
my pillow of orange lights

You said through feverishly gray lips
that spring is here
that a flower has birthed in your womb,
water, turquoise pools
Mediterranean swirls and violet streams
That you have solved
the anomaly of friction
And now you are afloat
in a vacuum
long, large
and quieter every second

I watched through umbilical
blinds and colloidal irises
Meteors in your baked body
I watched you detonate
You are a quark
Motionless

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Take Your Heart Back

Allie/Dances With Tricksters

Dances with Tricksters

The time I called you a monster, you said I spang from the heart of Lucifer, your own black heart, and you wrapped your claws around me like a snake and squeezed.  You held my  neck in vise hands and I expected a snap, instead I got a biting kiss, and fuck me but I thought that was love – the threat of pain but pleasure, I was so used to pain, I begged for scraps from a decaying god.

I’ve lain in the arms of corpses.  I’ve kissed ribs and licked phalanges and black rot from you rings my inner corners.  You’re writhing in worms and all I can ask is why, why did you pick me, there are billions of girls, so many prettier and wittier prey to stalk.  Why are your siren eyes my first memory, the first words I remember ever spoken to me “I love…

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Women-Introducing Rishika Sangeeta

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[Poem by Rishika Sangeeta]

women are told
lies before they even understand the concept of truth
taught to be softer
sweeter
smile more
laugh less
lower your eyes you insolent witch
taught to unravel like a carpet beneath a man’s feet

there is a place for a young girls dreams
your mother tells you at 12
and it hangs itself inside closets
tucks itself silent and simmering in her snarling curls
perfumes the house with the aroma of spices and bitter compromise
you will understand when you are older she says
and her eyes shine at you like a sickle moon in an empty sky
too tired to put up a fight

women are taught
to belong
to surrender
like sheep led to slaughterhouses innocent of your deceit

women are taught
to quicken their pace as day passes into the jaws of black night
the dark hides terrors little one
and animal lust
and the only voice she hears is her mother’s
and it whispers
run!

women are taught
their bodies are commodities to be bought and sold to the highest bidder
her mother is careful to call it dowry
a bride price
as if the safe trappings of tradition and culture
somehow censors the truth
that she never belonged to herself
she never would

in this world
a woman willing to claim herself
is deadly
dangerous
an outlier

but listen to me
you belong first to the call in your veins
to the pulse in your throat
to this shell that carries you
battered and bruised through
the quagmire of living
and you are powerful
merely for existing
for enduring
for loving

never forget that

[Rishika Sangeeta is a therapist in training and a writer of romantic prose and poetry. She spends hours in communion with the dark and her heart in a constant quest to unearth some meaning from the mayhem of living.]