Maybe this year, I will stop writing in code.
perhaps I’ll tell you I’ve been in love for a long time
with things other than the morning air or the smell of drying paint
maybe I’ll name you
say that your words sting sharper than the knife I’ve fashioned out of things I should have let fade but instead press over burning skin
say maybe I’m only half joking
say grief is a familiar poison I pretend to have the antidote to
(I got it from my mother who got it from her mother who got it from her mother or maybe I got it from my father who got it from his father who got it from his father who—either way)
there are no pretty words to say I spend so much of my time blinking back tears—I don’t like writing tears,
‘tears’ is an ungraceful formulation.
I’ve seen it displayed in crystal vases, but all I have is this old plastic jar that used to hold Nani’s hair cream that she never used. It’s an okay jar as far as jars go.
I don’t think you’ll like it much.
But maybe this year I won’t worry about that.
here, this is the jar.
take it, open it, pour it over your roses or into your bio-compost for all I care
I don’t care.
It’s a new year, it’s too soon to care.
that imitation moonbeam I gave you last week was about sexual harassment.
this soft blue blanket is about going swimming with my sister
this hilarious gif is about crying over being so far away from my family
this china bowl is about being stressed all the time
this green tea is about thinking maybe nothing will really ever make me happy
(except maybe being exactly 11 years and 2 months old, in an air-conditioned room with one green wall, wanting to be a middle-aged house painter with a fridge full of impressionable penguins–which is code for: I frickin’ love Mr Popper’s Penguins)
The jar’s olive green and promises to banish hairfall
Simran Can’t Curse On Paper
happy new year
the picture is from my aunt’s garden which is currently flourishing so happy new year to the plants as well i suppose.