The j in jalapeño, the p in pneumonia, the s in Louis are those individuals who stay in a relationship despite the red flags because "लोग क्या कहेंगे".

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To forget, I decided to incinerate the poems
I wrote for them at the happiest moments.
But what do I do with the memories engraved
in blood-red ink in the back of my mind?
My frail deeds took me nowhere
all those memories I tried to sinew together.
I ricochet between these erratic moments
by different faces carrying the same scent.

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Alive; not living.
Have you tried taking deep breaths?
Good enough for jazz.

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Inner-me, when people say "you're down-to-earth":

What?!? My head's always in the clouds.

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Depression: I need to hit the sack.

Anxiety: O fuckin' loser! What have you accomplished to deserve such luxury?

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Me, when my brain playing my embarrassing moments:

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You're the quicksand
I'd c r a v e to
spiral down,
Turtledove.

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Inner me, when someone tries to give me an unsolicited advice:

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Travelling without a penny in your hand

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