This poem is going to be on my epitaph
or maybe not.
Because, neither am I a Christian
nor do you give a damn.
‘ That’s what careless words do. They make people love you a little less. ‘
My copy of God of Small Things
is dampened with
tears and memories.
Believe me when I say
that I have lived the quote.
If you let me to
I would engrave each of its syllable
on my body
so that I am constantly reminded
of how with each passing day,
people will shed a tear less
at my funeral.
Believe me when I say
I have lost the love of so many loved ones
that I’m afraid
I might shrink to nothingness someday.
When I was ten,
My Mother told me that
I am never going to be loved
because people don’t love a girl
whose words hurt:
My words were like the stray cricket ball
which broke your fancy stained, french windows.
My words reminded you of MLTR playing on a broken radio;
old, obsolete. Who listens to them anymore?
The agonizing cry of a child after getting beaten up
the loud slam of the door when your lover walked out
the faint whimpers of a puppy near his dead mother on some distant highway:
those were my words.
My words, they never dripped honey
or smelt of lavender essential oils
or reminded anyone of the nostalgic whistle of the last train to home.
I was often baffled by the synonymity
between me and my words
on how unfailingly we had failed people
holding the doors open for them
whenever they decided to walk out;
never uttering a sigh. Hush!
Little girl, you were never supposed to be loved
or to be heard out beyond what you say.
It has been two decades since my words have stopped making sense
so, I have locked them away in the basement in the same carton where I have put my gardening tools and love:
I am never going to use them anyway.
So, the next time you meet me
just brand me as a junkyard of sass.
It’s the easy way out, trust me.
Do not try crawling into my skin,
hammering your way through my bones,
swimming through the blood,
trying to reach my chest where nothing beats anymore.
Do not try to know me,
Do not ask me why I am always short of things to talk about.
Do not ask me if I am choked on tears because I am always going to blame the cold and wine
Do not ask me about those craters under my eyes because I am going to tell you they are hereditary.
Do not ask me why my hands tremble so much, because it’s just a neural glitch, that’s all-
You see, I have bought myself some good red wine, a few planks of wood and a new blade.
I am building my coffin, drafting my obituary, and carving out a message delicately on the nape of my neck.
So, the next time you see me,
do not ask me why my hair is always in a top knot.
So, the next time you see me,
and I hope you see me dead,
do not fucking say that I did not cry for help.
-Sanchita Dwivedi, 2018
Picture credits: Cris Valencia
Crackle of Sheets 