By Drishti Kedia
Blood red October skies,
the place I call home burns my love to warm its walls up.
Rather, burns itself up to warm me,
like a mother's love does.
What is home if not where you see love suffocating?
What is pain if not a parent crying at how they birthed a child so sad she becomes a poet?
My father's nickname for me bites away at my heart,
Father, forgive me for the times I lied, I'll forgive you for yours.
Can I be home in your arms one last time before I run away?
Mother, will you forget my trouble-filled childhood and love me like you did when I was six?
Can I dream on your lap one last time before I run away?
I ask for forgiveness instead of love;
love I'll find lost in streets of a new city, forgiveness I'll find in only your tongues.
Home is still burning.
It’'s eating away everything I've ever touched and loved.
Fire killed…kissed skin,
I'm the collateral damage to my own love story.
The damaged walls tell a tale so old,
grandparents dancing, parents fighting.
I'm the lovechild of feelings so dirty, srubbing away the poetry off of me.
Autumn evenings paint a pretty picture of the gods in their diamond palaces,
I drive off the highway into the November skylight, into the abstract art of death.
Peace, here I come,
home, stop burning for there's no one to warm.
My love, smile a little more, a sinking heart will take you down with it.
What is death if not where you suffocate love?
It's quiet in here, I can dream all I want to,
I can visit all my sins, love everything I was scared to when I had blood running in my veins,
I'll still live in a whisper of my name or in a fading memory of my smile.
What is my poetry if not blasphemy?
Isn't all of poetry that?
Sometimes, even this blasphemy feels stolen.
Sometimes, I feel like a thief of my own words.
Or am I just using too many words now?
-the truth from a liar's mouth sounds like a scream stuck in the throat.
By Drishti Kedia
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