I understand now what blind devotion is
I'm devoted to a pair of frigid arctic fox eyes,
to feel what I felt once, chills from a vision
so much so, that I can't see what’s past them—
utter apathy,
a burning loathe oozing from a mere stare.
Just hope to sit back hushed and watch you forever.
To see you wake up and pace around putting phantoms to shame
with your spine curled like a question mark.
To see your slender hands descend into muscle memory of what they know best—
humbly, gently, breaking things apart.
Tell me then, Dearest, what's quicker?—
you abandoning conversations over and over,
or running buildings from taxi window as you leave,
leaving your copy of ‘Searching for Women who Drink Whiskey’.
And then I'm alone in crowds again,
with my lemon tea you despise and birthmark you'll never know of
asking myself one more time—
Did I fight the current too hard when I should've just swayed?
Did I freeload golden sunbeams to your burnt heart?
I’m supposed to be angry.
I’m supposed to not do this to myself.
I’m supposed to cut all memories of you affixed to my mind with a tearing safety pin.
I’m supposed, and assumed, and expected to be a man with a toothy grin.
I feel certain I'm going mad again.
I think I need a gun down my throat,
these constant papercut pricks are bleeding me dry.
I hope to write you out the way I wrote you in.
So I’ll keep my thoughts busy & turn the TV on,
only to watch the world burn
“The bomb has long since been diffused”
How much shamelessness is too much shamelessness?
Shamelessly, I’ll be around
fully aware there’s no return of you.
And shamelessly I’ll talk about weather or politics or art
or anything for the sake of talking again
fully aware I’m not welcome to be heard anymore.
Praniti Pathak is a medical student currently in Bhopal who can be found watching movies, reading books, solving sudoku or playing chess, if not memorizing drugs classifications. She has keen interest and is actively trying to learn more and more about non-musical theatre, clinical psychopathology, history of queer art and artists of India and things to cook and pair with morning coffee. This is her first published poem.