Poems: This hurt you're feeling, don't trap it in the jar of love, Leftovers on my plate

 



[Image Description: White hands holding an opened jar of honey. Their fingers are almost touching the golden liquid inside.]


Photo by cottonbro from Pexels

Poems by Fathima Roshni

This hurt you're feeling, don't trap it in the jar of love.
for I and his grieving heart

Two spoons of sugar is enough to balance
the bitterness of a cup of coffee
but you don't know how much hope does it
take to wash off the blood from the wound
love's sword made on you.
You try to clean it with the fresh cotton
stored in the hidden cabinet of your body.
You're wondering why your body doesn't
take care of itself.
Why is it hard to move this arm to reach
a glass of water?
Your sustenance depends on that glass of water.
You try harder and harder,
you think you fail yourself.

My dear I, you should know,
grief is a mother.
You're inside her belly holding onto this pain
squeezing it into a handful
until it becomes small enough to hoard inside one chamber of your heart.
Till then make room for it.
Hold on to these hands I have held before you.
I have ripped all the thorns from the roses
that have grown out of my hands.
Water them with your tears.
Let your hands feel what your grief has made.
This beautiful price of love,
it is to be cherished.
Take them with you when you see the light out to the world.

Remember, her belly can serve you for a lifetime
but do not find comfort in her
for then your nourishment can make the thorns grow
faster than the red roses
pricking you,
too much is poison.

Let grief's garden be filled with enough flowers
to make the herb for the bruise
and now sleep to this lullaby your pain sings.


Leftovers on my plate

Blue birds falling from the sky
like a cloud vomiting rain.
Blue butterfly stuck in the cobwebs
like my boots trapped in the mud.
Blue saree wore by my mother,
she standing beside a stack of marigolds,
like the black mole tainted on my neck.
Blue, potentially hazardous, choking me at dinner.
How did it climb onto my table?
Out of nowhere!
No, it is from me. Should be.
Only my grief can paint blue.
My dead cat, injecting blue into my skin.
My veins, struggling to carry it all over my body.
Blue crackers shaped like a cat face laid out on my plate.
The more I look at it the darker it gets.
Am I digging a well too deep to drown my sadness?
How can I climb back?
Blue crackers moved onto one side of the plate,
the other side filled with blue heart-shaped pasta —
The cost of my love.
My lover grabbing my heart with her soft hands,
blue seeping down her arms.
I never clear my plates.
Leftovers — the remaining hurt creating a mess;
this is the art I made with love.
They say it's a privilege to get your heart broken,
it's a privilege to feel sadness,
that from pain one create beautiful things
but can you create yourself from all the broken pieces,
shattered and crumbled again when you try to pick them up
bruising you more and more each time?
Can you?


Fathima Roshni(she/her) is a 19-year-old writer based in Kerala, India. She has to think for over half an hour whether to drink coffee or chai while reading a book. Her works have previously appeared on Women's Web and Indus Woman Writing.