Lessons from childhood (a poem)

Art journal by Purnima

Silence, a seven-letter word was often served to us in our dinner plates. At the dining table, I basically learnt to chew morsels of food and swallow the words. My brother would always spit the latter out and hence, he could never learn how to patient enough.
Silence, a seven-letter word, same as the number of letters in my name and how on most of the days,
I crumble
collapse
dismantle
quietly
unheard.
[Lessons from childhood]
-Purnima

PS: I have been art journalling for a while. So I thought I could share the pieces of my heart with you all.

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My birthday is a lie (poem)

My birth certificate says that I was born on August 8 1997, at five-thirty in the evening i.e almost at the sunset. But it’s a lie.

The truth is, I take a new birth everyday, building again and again from the wreckage of yesterday’s mess, ripping bandages off the old wounds, covering the new ones, washing the dirt sticking to my soles, grabbing more smiles and less sighs,
filling myself up with courage, patience and literature and poetries like I fill up the empty bottles with water every night.

My birth certificate says that I was born twenty years ago, but that is wrong. I was born the previous morning the minute I got out of the bed. Infact, I took a new birth today
[My birthday is a lie]
-purnima

Caretakers of a messy garden

My best friend, once, listed down
thousand reasons stating why I
should be loved and one of them
read, ‘she will never pick up your
calls, but is a very good listener’
‘Funny’, I told her.

Mom, sometimes plants a kiss
on my forehead, which feels soft
like the sky, a few minutes before
the sun sinks down the horizon.
Maybe even more lighter and
smoother than that. And then she
whispers, ‘Honey, you are beautiful.
I love you’.

My brother seldom reads the things
I write and when he finally does, he
appreciates them with a meagre ‘your poems are just fine’. •

But the way his eyes light up stars
and moons and galaxies all at once
while saying those words, I know he
means it. I know he means every
damn letter of, ‘your poems are just fine’.

And my dad, he stays silent like he
has been for eons. Maybe, he says
something my ears often miss. But,
he does smiles.

So, you telling me that I suck
doesn’t even matter. Because
I have got people who if tomorrow
my roots die a premature death
will never stop watering me.
And for them, I’ll revive.
always.

Things my mother taught me

1) Keeping broken things at home brings bad luck.

2) You need to throw them away as soon as possible

3) You don’t do the same with human beings. You don’t just throw people out of your life only because they are broken.

4) You protect them.

5) You help them to take care of the wounds inflicted upon their body and the soul.

6) You help them in sewing their loose threads back together.

7) You always walk with them to help find a way along the murky streets of despair.

8) You hold their hands tight enough to assure them of your warmth of love.

9) You don’t let that hand go easily.

Because I know exactly how it feels to be left alone under the dark sky, on a stranger road and without a map. I know how it feels to fall back and having nobody to catch you. I know how it feels to swim oceans and struggle to gasp for air every second. I know how it feels to die whilst you are still living. I know how it feels to be in pain.

10) So you don’t just let go broken people. Instead you love them and make them whole again.

[Things my mother taught me]

~purnima

Notes to the hurting

Healing will come to you at the unexpected moments. It might be one fine morning when you no longer feel your bones cracking as you struggle to get out of the bed. There will be no aches. No pain.

It might happen to you at the park nearby your house where you see a mother canoodling her baby and that itself brings a upward curve at the corner of your lips.

It might happen at the hour of noon, when the sunlight seeps in to your skin giving you warmth and making you feel alive once again.

It might happen at the onset of dusk, when along with the birds flying to their shelter, even you yearn to go back home. To yourself.

Finally it might happen at the tranquility of darkness, when healing slowly creeps on to your pillow, places beautiful dreams underneath it and you sleep, peacefully.

Healing will come, because you deserve all of it.

Conversations at midnight

It’s the same night again, where we are so close to each other that I can hear you breathe and count each of them, like one, two, three, four

It’s the same night again, where I can listen to your hearbeat that’s playing like a soulful symphony in my ears. The kind of music I want to listen the rest of my life.

It’s the same night again, where I am tracing constellations in your eyes so intently that we never realise that morning sun coming up.

It’s the same night again, where we talk about each other. Where you tell me about your first love, the heartbreak, the times when you felt like you can’t take it anymore, the first time you saw your mother cry or the first time you saw me.

It’s the same night again, where I confide you about my vulnerabilities or fears or my obsessions and you don’t wince or turn your face away.

It’s the same night again; you, me and the book that we left unread.

Empty Apologies

Sorry, I wasn’t there when you bombarded me with those hundreds of text messages. I had already buried my phone in the backyard and nobody knows about it.

Sorry, I wasn’t there when you wanted to go out with me for some fresh air or maybe, a pizza. I had lost my appetite a long ago and was apparently, choking as if the air was toxic just for me.

Sorry, I wasn’t there when you locked yourself in that dark room and refused to venture out. I was myself wandering in the pitch black street and couldn’t find a way back home and to you.

Sorry, I wasn’t there when you slashed your wrist a little. My own scars were new, and they ran deep down even below this superficial skin.

Sorry, I wasn’t there to wipe away your tears. How could I’ve done that when my own hands were smeared in mud?

Sorry I wasn’t there to help you mend your broken pieces. I was searching my own scattered ones. I still am.

(Empty Apologies)