I don’t have anyone to talk to about these things anymore. The broken cooler in my room nobody would fix. The fan on the ceiling and the slow hum of it. I fell butt down on a
busy road the other day and laughed 5 minutes straight and came home, rubbed hot wet cloth over the bruises and then cried some. I bought the wrong vegetables, walked into the wrong place. I picked a fabric softener that smells like hospitals and antiseptic because it was cheaper, and you know how much I hate hospitals. The overripe bananas on top of the fridge. The insect bites on my thighs have left ugly marks. A man bought me flowers one day, orange lilies and I cried the whole night. I watch too many cheap Bollywood movies now, all that dancing and sorrow seeps into everything. I miss coconut oil. How did it ever come to this. I walk around with my hand curled into a fist all the time. I’m tired. The air is suffocating, people push too much here, touch too much. I’m starting to look like something out of a lost and found basket. I haven’t brushed my hair in 9 days. If you had tried to run your fingers down my hair, you probably would have to cut your fingers. The jokes. The losing mind, the sobbing phone calls. My neighbours want me to leave, my father wants me to come home. I look in the mirror and ask “what do you want love“. I want someone to talk to about these things.
– journal; This is Not A Poem by Thamanna Razak