Stranger Things

It feels like I’m reading a sign at the train station, This can’t be me, can it?
Buried under those fluorescent-dyed teddy bears, I’m the shiny little one in the corner,
Maybe this time it’ll be my turn.

You hear the words,
But imagine seeing them first. Mouth open; lips curled,
All forming the words you see so clearly. Your insides begging for them to stop, And yet you breathe them in.
Little blocks of print floating towards you with an uncertain ease.
Penduluming between being eggless and a basket full of eggs-
I’m the wrong basket and this is badly timed.

It feels like I’m reading a sign at the train station, This can’t be me, can it?
Buried under those fluorescent-dyed teddy bears, I’m the shiny little one in the corner,
Maybe this time it’ll be my turn.

So I lay still.
Glistening in the sterile light,
Those steel jaws opening and closing at a distance above me.
This must be the beginning.

So, why death and why not love, you ask?
After all isn’t the latter what gives meaning to one’s life- purpose, direction, a future to look forward to
Tucked away in a corner at my table for 4, I wonder, and
It occurs to me that I may have died once already. Because is it not true that you did die that night?

Door unlocked, I waited for you and while I waited, lost little bits of myself.
I close my eyes and in that second I can see your tear-filled eyes gaze into mine.
The fear I felt, finally taking shape in your face. Your gaze fixed on me, I gave into you.
Was it always part of your plan to consume me whole? You wouldn’t let me look away,
But in that lifetime I wouldn’t have had it any other way.
You answered all my unformed questions, Words lost,
dripping down between my legs. I was consumed whole.
And in that moment, I died and came back a different person.
Someone who owes you nothing. I disappeared that night.
My entire being in one clean sweep.
I know not what to say to you anymore, Both of you.
You are strangers to me now.

This must be as hard as it feels,
Each syllable lodging itself with exact precision, Choking me until I produce no sound.
Hands cold and with a certain rubberiness, I do only what I know-
get comfortable.
So maybe this is it,
I did need to bury myself to feel you. And now that I am dead,
What is the need for the rest of this? I once lived; and in that life,
Loved and breathed,
It’s now time to be lowered in the ground.

She is of the sounds of the past and is at sea in the present. While she can spend a large amount of her time playing the role of cantankerous dinosaur, she's also nauseatingly obsessed with making a celebration of everything and firmly believes she's hit gold with the people who have become her family. She's here for eaaaaarly mornings, picnics, beer, and dosas for days.

About the guest author

Nidyamale