Poetry, Words
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not a bush: words from rachana hegde

half life

you step on the bus smelling like chlorine
eyes bright, prickling with tears;
all those late nights are catching up to you,
swallowing your sanity whole;

i watch you call your mother
words blurring together –

(& this might be a memory but)
i remember:
the shape of your hands on the windowsill
pressing hope into the tip of a pencil
scratching out a different dream
from the one your father screamed
fingers clenched around the door-handle of your room;

when you sit down next to me,
you carry the weight of
unshed tears –

two phone calls later you’re
clawing at your wrists
muttering about mistakes & consequences
& i grow tired of watching you draw blood
from a body that deserves better –
(you deserve better) –
than a half life
filled to the brim with:
school / swimming / school / swimming
“this is how we become tragedies (statistics)”
I tell you
but there is an exam next week
& you want to start studying.

*  *  *

Metamorphosis

I WANT TO LEAVE;

I brush my teeth & spit
sawdust on marble floors
ash coating the slick bones of
a body that refuses to stop contracting;

I’M TIRED OF SHRINKING;

Emptying water into the sink
clutching the door knob
clutching the steel rod
clutching the –

BUT THE PHONE IS RINGING;

Blood tastes like rust –
the color of failure dripping
on my fingers & down the drain

THE PHONE IS STILL RINGING;

Collapse (like the fall of an empire)
there is a monster in my ribcage
(she’s held her breath for far too long)
hammers a nail into my forehead
(snarling for freedom)
the ground shifts beneath my feet

THIS IS METAMORPHOSIS;

Dragging my body through
the dirt coating the sides of the
bathtub, leaving fingerprints on the
white walls, air sucked from my lungs

THE PHONE IS STILL RINGING;

A SCREAM builds in my chest

 LEAVE ME ALONE;
CAN’T YOU SEE I’M BUSY?

*  *  *

Mistake

the word ‘mistake’ hangs in the air between us
i take a permanent marker & scrawl
‘sorry’ on the floorboards
come home & slip on soapsuds
(you spent the entire morning
scrubbing away at my apologies) ;
so I bleach the walls
stark white:
a color that drowns out the sound of my crying;
next week, i will teach myself to forget
(not forgive)
watch you split open my skin
& carve out the parts of me
you hate;
knife sawing away at everything that makes me
an (human) mistake.

* * *

RACHANA HEGDE is a 16 year-old girl who collects words & other oddities. During the day, she spends copious amounts of time reading on her Kindle but at night, she dreams about characters from her various works-in-progress. She also happens to be a poet, blogger and book addict. Her poetry has been published by Germ Magazine, Scrittura Magazine and Parallel Ink.

 

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