By Aarohi Rao
isolation is a place to be inhabited.
lived in with no scope of escape.
it is a haunting. and a desperate getaway from the outside world.
it is a fact of life. and a reality that cannot be ignored.
isolation is calmness and fear and a gripping loneliness.
it’s sitting alone on the sofa, faint murmurs in the background,
but refusing to get up and join the crowd.
isolation is not just in the solitude of being alone,
but the loneliness of it. the only time you can truly
be yourself is when you’re alone.
solitude is never ending, and each moment of it feels like eternity.
when you are alone, you feel you have all the time in the world.
it’s why you stay up at night.
to be alone. to be free.
to not have anyone’s voice stuck in your ear.
and you could go on forever.
you’ll be so lonely.
you wake up at dawn, your heart bleeding from your chest.
an open wound, desperate to be touched.
you touch it. it burns. it burns. your heart is the great fire of london.
it is a forest fire in june. you shove it back in your chest.
your hands hurt.
you lock it. seal the clasp. stop it, you say. the burning doesn’t stop. your heart is burning me up from
the inside. you are wrecked. you are ruined. you are destroyed.
your heart is still bleeding. still an open wound.
still desperate to be touched. you want someone to pick at it;
to caress it. you want someone to nurse your heart back to health.
it might burn their hands out.
yours are already on fire.
—-
i want to tell you about the mortality of indulgence.
you want to hold life in your mouth.
you want to swallow it whole,
consume its essence.
you want it to be a part of you.
to always remain with you.
you want to feast and you want to eat.
you hold the bird of my heart in your hand;
your fingers touching the curve around the neck.
nearly gripping its throat.
someone should’ve taught you gentleness.
your hands are unused to this.
delicateness. fragility. the bird is wounded.
trapped by the forces of your desire.
caged by the agony of longing.
held still by your hands.
someone should stop you,
before it dies from the
weight of your convictions.
why don’t you know when to stop. why did you never learn.
By Aarohi Rao
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