growing up in silence
but it was only ever
wholly external
the noise behind my eyes
deafening and clamouring
begging for attention
‘so mature for your age’
you molded me into this
awkward blabbering mess
problem child listening raptly
terrible pronouncements
thrown carelessly in anger
will i ever rise up from this
attention-craving, attention-hating,
ruse of a life
and make my eyes meet those
of another unflinchingly, almost lovingly
it feels like even self-love
is an act
of political warfare
and self-hatred
a deceptively familiar safe house
this house is telling me to flee
it senses that i am becoming aware
of the delusion of its safety.
‘you need to run,’ it screams,
‘i have become blazing flames
but i won’t disintegrate
i’ll grow stronger instead.
you, my sole inhabitant,
will burn down and your bones
will melt from the heat
into a slag heap of your
false failures and unmet relations.
run while you can, my child of dazed anger.
run. run. run.’
the bedrooms are flooded
with the murky water
of supposed humiliations
and thoughtless actions
that could mean less than nothing
the hallways are peculiarly dry
and yet offer no sanctuary
from the intrinsic unease
of the decrepit house
with its dusty, torn-out wallpaper
the living room is no different
it offers no solace
it is unforgiving
in contradiction to its name
and in the surrealism of its being
this house is falling apart and if i stay
i will fall with it
i think i think
it is time it is time
to run
‘sir, your child
isn’t what he thinks he is.
he is like the moon
chasing after its fullness,
running from its newness;
waxing and waning
from one extreme to another,
never realizing that beauty
lies in the imperfect phases.
he is like a dandelion
holding onto his seeds,
resisting the winds of growth
and the shelter of soil,
never realizing that letting go
will make him more of himself.
sir, please make your child
more of himself.’
father, this house
follows me around
even though it was the one
that told me to run
from the snatches
of its hatred
i am scared that
i will return to it
in answer to its familiar call
and languish on its bare rugs
waiting for the chandelier to fall
son, this house of yours
this mansion of self-loathing
will become a cottage
of neutrality
and then an
empty plot
of tenderness
i hope it will
remind you of a time
of sweet innocence and childhood
when there was no creaky house
but only an open meadow
i will make it so
just take my hand
and follow me
where i lead.
just
jump down
my boy
trust me
i will
catch you
- rudraksh
Comments