Creator
CREATOR. AIRAVAT/ IRAVATI
You are not mine they said, and they were right, and I believed them. I could tell when your three heads could never fit at the edge of the kiss of my mother tongue. I knew it was hurt I caused, after leaving. After leaving I knew what belonging felt like.
I was not yours, but you agreed when they said it. That was hurt. I was sung alive with seven songs, but my tripled words never fell right in your lap. That was hurt. So, I went looking to drown after the drought you caused and found myself.
I look up and the droplets sting the apples of my cheek. Must be you trying to get closer. I guess you found what I never could. Huh. Seven songs got me you and this rain and there is nothing more unbearable than getting wet. Than being dull and heavy with darkness.
You are not the shoreline anymore. I have pulled and plucked and trumpeted enchantments of resistance. You once felt bees kiss you after you told me every word, I spoke was a bite you couldn’t swallow. Every time I turn each head, each breath trumpets, but the notes are off.
You are three too many
for
me.
My clouds are
not heavy in the first place. I got dark so you could feel
Lighter after.
Too heavy for me.
You know there is
Nothing bigger than me I can bear in this
place.
I should never have imagined us speaking.
But nothing feels complete. My breath feels symphonically cacophonous.
Ma. you sung me up and snuffed me out, so I keep blowing my nose to make it pour.
No, you don’t get more words or colour.
You don’t get what you didn’t give. Here seven thirds and second and
First place of remembering and memory that is your belonging in and around
me.
I can give myself your words now.
I can give myself pieces of every burnt crisp of thought you cut my ivory for and
I can tell you there is nothing bluer than the word thunder.
Here
This is my seventh verse. I have twisted my trunk and sprung from
The place and first time and triple trials and blurry maternal bankruptcy. Really
I have stopped collecting the shavings from all that you erased. Really
I can give you back what you never wanted and I can want my tongues and their tipples – tripled and all.
You are not mine they said, and they were right, and I believed them. I could tell when your three heads could never fit at the edge of the kiss of my mother tongue. I knew it was hurt I caused, after leaving. After leaving I knew what belonging felt like.
I was not yours, but you agreed when they said it. That was hurt. I was sung alive with seven songs, but my tripled words never fell right in your lap. That was hurt. So, I went looking to drown after the drought you caused and found myself.
I look up and the droplets sting the apples of my cheek. Must be you trying to get closer. I guess you found what I never could. Huh. Seven songs got me you and this rain and there is nothing more unbearable than getting wet. Than being dull and heavy with darkness.
You are not the shoreline anymore. I have pulled and plucked and trumpeted enchantments of resistance. You once felt bees kiss you after you told me every word, I spoke was a bite you couldn’t swallow. Every time I turn each head, each breath trumpets, but the notes are off.
You are three too many
for
me.
My clouds are
not heavy in the first place. I got dark so you could feel
Lighter after.
Too heavy for me.
You know there is
Nothing bigger than me I can bear in this
place.
I should never have imagined us speaking.
But nothing feels complete. My breath feels symphonically cacophonous.
Ma. you sung me up and snuffed me out, so I keep blowing my nose to make it pour.
No, you don’t get more words or colour.
You don’t get what you didn’t give. Here seven thirds and second and
First place of remembering and memory that is your belonging in and around
me.
I can give myself your words now.
I can give myself pieces of every burnt crisp of thought you cut my ivory for and
I can tell you there is nothing bluer than the word thunder.
Here
This is my seventh verse. I have twisted my trunk and sprung from
The place and first time and triple trials and blurry maternal bankruptcy. Really
I have stopped collecting the shavings from all that you erased. Really
I can give you back what you never wanted and I can want my tongues and their tipples – tripled and all.
