Blood rushing underneath the flesh of my lips, to cheek– a sudden slithering tickle in my muscles. The tongue is rolling to say something but is forgetting before it utters and unfolds. My head has lost words to tell, so I make up more. I desperately need to read poems, stories of all kinds. I need to dive in- somewhere deeper and newer. I need new seas to swim through. But I guess I float in my own.
I feel this urge to emit poem on the buds of tongue. I taste a poem inside me, coming somewhere from the depth of incoherent belly. I’ll write shameless ideas on a rough WordPress note, to weave something later. When was the last time I truly believed in myself? I guess I never did.
The blood rushing in my lips becomes frozen and clots when bit by you. I love you. I think so. I feel that I love you and I miss your warmth. I don’t think I can successfully write what I mean to.
Last night, I discovered my body lit up. In fire, I breathed. A state of trance. Of losing something.
I think there’s always a poem screaming inside me, twitching my body parts and telling me that I must write. I’m blinded. Blinded by my own light. I feel this sour poem between my teeth. My cat kisses the water dripping from the AC.
I was burning last night and nothing could save me. A longing that sits on the edge, a foot hanging, a foot folded. I feel myself on this empty run- chasing after you. The thought of us, lost in a forest, walking through it. Different dilemmas of different homes go on and on and they come back to a place. What I must write about now? Little dimsum swell in the soup. I feel the comfort of talking to my mother, when she talks about the mountains. The hairs on our shins are so likewise. I think I’ll become her in a few years. And I smile. There’s nothing more that could make me smile on this day. For one moment today, I feel the vastness of this world and the people in it, and tiny different ways in which we differ. And this thought looks so beautiful that I forget the ugliness. There’s none. There is none.
What am I talking about, do you know? This isn’t a poem. Just a flow. And I keep flowing like a river. Perhaps a poem after the stagnance, of everything inside me. What is this place in my mind? Where do I come from?
—Priyanshi, As I write to never pause.