18.03

18:03 in my childhood bedroom,

feeling like a soldier in war,

looking out for the trigger warnings,

and written bullets in the creased letters.

I armor myself with three oversized sweaters,

over my worn-out Chicago Bulls T-shirt,

trying to keep the enemy from winning,

while negotiating with the butterflies.

I put down the letters of sweet compliments,

in my bed bunk back again,

and I reminisce the boy I could never love,

the boy who was nothing but too good to me,

who called me pretty on my worst days,

and gave me chocolates when he thought I was sad,

the boy who couldn’t stop smiling just because I sat next to him.

18:03 in the room of my memories,

still hides the same innocence of mum,

trying to put oil on my face, on the mornings of Holi,

like the oil ever saved my face from color,

and the joy of never wondering how I looked before stepping out.

I wish I could’ve seen how short those days of ignorance will be,

they disguised so well under the veil of a devil in the corner,

that their whispers of ugly nothings about,

the widening hips and the scars on my skin,

came all too clear to me,

they stayed and inscribed themselves over my heart.

18:03 in the room where I grew up,

saw bubblegum pink slowly turn dull on my walls,

keeping sure dad’s not home as I leafed through the books I stored,

looking up random thoughts on Google to understand,

what it means to be scared in your own home,

wondering if what I had is even a home,

hiding the slam books full of memories and fun,

and making sure I am decent and studying-

or pretending to, at least,

before he arrives.

18:03 in the room of my childhood,

should smell like the freshly packed,

paranthas in aluminum foil,

and the J&J cream, we all shared,

look like the clean tucked bedsheet,

and the over-stuffed glass cabinet,

sound like the giggles of my mum and me,

and the screams of my neighbor,

calling her son back home for dinner.

But, there are also these wisps of sadness,

coming in through the window which doesn’t close.

There are screams in-between the broken corners of the walls,

and the echo of my weeps on the pillow,

the room I wished had only known

sunshine and rainbows,

has sadness and cries just as evident.

And the monsters I thought were long dead,

are slowly rising up to greet me,

mock me, laugh at me like they always did,

point fingers and remind me, we’ll never leave you.

18:03 in my childhood bedroom,

should’ve been the room of my hopes and dreams,

but it’s also the room where my skin grew thick,

and my mind learned to be stronger,

the room taught me kindness and the room taught me pain,

and I think I survived the days,

somewhat/somehow with grace.

-s