Flirting

A void inside my chest
threatens to consume me;
I don’t know if it’s
the calm before the storm
or the oblivion after the tempest.

Fingers on my neck
like a lover,
caress my skin
slowlyslowlyslowly
choke me with love.

Wrote you a love letter.
Paint on paper-
red
black
red
black
red
black
halo of blood
around my head.

Push me off my cliff
into your sea.
You always leave
even in my dreams.

I can’t make you stay
but I can take a part of you
away with me.

Say your name, breathe in, jump.
Will you stand behind me
and count to three?

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Book Review: The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood


“We were the people who were not in the papers. We lived in the blank white spaces at the edges of print. It gave us more freedom.
We lived in the gaps between the stories.”


The world created by Atwood in The Handmaid’s Tale is a world out of a feminist’s nightmare- a world that reduces women to their reproductive ability. The world builds slowly and gradually, as the story unfolds, and you realise, slowly and gradually, how horrible this world is. 

I fell in love with Atwood’s style of writing. It’s metaphorical, but not sugar-coated. Don’t expect her to romanticise the horrific life that Offred lived; she’s very straightforward. The prose is dark, quiet, rich with detail and drama bubbles under it. 

This book will disturb you. It will haunt you. In the best possible way. The ending is obscure. You might immediately dislike the book when you get to that part. It might even annoy you. But, for me, it worked. It gave the book a sense of reality, that I expect from such a heavy theme. The story will stay with me forever, and so will Offred.

Image source

Impressions

You splattered red
on my bare canvas;
defined my desires,
determined my fears
and the things that
fuel my fire.

You dabbed my canvas with
your favourite shade of blue.
Etched your own
notions into me;
of faith, haven and virtue.

You smothered me in orange,
never not reminding me of
my inadequacy to irradiate lives-
neither mine, nor others’.

You covered the parts of me
that you hated in black;
discarding them as odd,
ignoring their existence
despite their persistence.

Pink was your favourite.
With it, you carefully drew
the boundary of my love,
the bounds of my femininity
and the scope of what I can do.

So I bathe myself in white,
painting over the myriad of hues
you stained me with.
I stand here, a bare canvas again.

I will not be your red
for I will build
my own fire.

I reject your blue
for I will be
my own refuge.

I am not orange
for I will burn brighter
than the yellow of the sun.

I refuse to be black
for being imperfect
doesn’t make me inferior.

Your boundaries of pink
won’t contain my love
or my potential.

I stand here, a bare canvas again
and I will recreate myself.

But this time
the colours will be mine.

Home

Infinite seas of
gregarious folks,
at times, convivial,
at times, intimidating.
Shrieking of
maddening horns
during the day.
Dulcet chirps of
cicadas
by the dusk.
Uneven roadways
outlined with
at times, establishments,
yellow leaves and leaflets,
at times, trees,
fences and shy lovers.
The sun-
bashful in the winter,
tyrannising in the summer.
Oxygen lined with
the scent of
spice, mangoes,
gossip and dust:
All interlaced delicately
to give me
the aesthetic pleasure
in residing in
the little town
I call home.