I’m like a rain fed cloud.
Dark. Heavy. Full.
Not the one before the first monsoon.
But the one leading to a hurricane.
I prefer destruction.
I wake up every morning
only to go back to sleep two hours later.
Sleep gives me the peace
I don’t find in happiness
for it lets me foray into the wilderness
my brain creates to trap me.
I find bliss in buying a toothbrush
whose new bristles prick my gums the next morning
to leave them bleeding.
I smile with the red in my mouth.
I try to drown in the shower
but the drains don’t let me.
I rub the towel on my skin
until the last of water is gone.
I’ve turned blue from it, but I like purple.
I scream and they listen.
They label me a psychopath.
Because I have no reason – I smile, I chat, I laugh and I eat.
Ma cooks a new dish every day and asks me how it tastes.
I feel nothing on my tongue
that’s been cut far too much
from not calling out the dearth of loyalty.
I tell her it’s perfect.
I skip half of my dinner
to make room for all the stress eating
I might do later in the night.
Then I starve myself to sleep.
I go out and come back inside.
I hate the sun, I hate the wind.
My insides rot away in the mansion.
My heart feel like it has stopped beating.
I fail to touch myself,
I fail those who to wish to touch me.
I don’t do hugs anymore.
I’m cold as the water of Ganga in January
and they deserve the warmth of tea on its banks.
I sit under a glowing light, wondering –
do we await death,
or does death await us,
before I pull the plug.
Ishika Garg is a 17-year old law aspirant, who writes at 5 am for six months straight, and then doesn’t for the next six months.
Featured image credit: Ashwath SK/Unsplash