How to sleep with a quivering heart?



Picture Credits: Mahitha Kasireddi. Copyrighted.


My heart pounds
like it’s banging
on the railing of
my rib cage.


Lately, it has
developed limbs
and arms. It keeps
sticking out its hands
and punching on my
lungs with the hope that
they would burst open.


It makes me
sit up in the middle
of the night – such are
its demands.


How to sleep
with a quivering heart?
There’s little power
in my own arms to
wrestle with a heart
that grew claws
under my chest.

(It crawls up,
falls back.)
(crawls up,
falls back.)

And then it started
extended its limbs
and vigorously cycled
in the air while imaging
itself jogging on the streets.


I jibbed wildly
on my bed with my
palms pressed
against my chest.
My body resonated
with its groans.


How to sleep
with a quivering heart?
It’s not just a lump
with a tongue anymore.
It turned into a vehicle
with fuel and wheels,
it does not station
itself anymore,
it turned into a
gypsy on the road.

All my conditioning
came down at once.
My heart stretched its
arms and looked around
with avenging eyes and
seething breath.
It broke open its veins
and spilled the red like
ink spilling from a bottle.


In no time it
widened its wings,
It outgrew its bondage,
it shattered all bars
and flew away.


-MagyKars (c) 9/2/2017


The other day
I skinned myself
with a sharp razor
that was manufactured
to fix my awkwardness with
extras, covers, spikes and judgments.

I pulled out
the offensive layer
of a still alive skin tissue
from the gaps of its neat metal blades
I looked at it very closely with mixed feelings
Of awe and amusement with popped out eyeballs.

I held it in
the middle of my fingers
carefully not to tear it as though
it wasn’t removed and made dysfunctional yet.
It had absolutely no width like my shrunken stomach.
It was fragile like my dreams hanging weakly by a thread.

I think I’m
everything that layer
represents – bruised, countlessly
dead, fallen, replaced, repeated in cycles
in years in calendars in moons and no moons, yet
grows back to give the same awkwardness to be skinned with razors.

Someone was right
Some miseries only end with death
Some freedoms are truly for free spirits
Some layers of skin tissues attract punishment
Some dreams fade out against dominating backdrops
Some everlasting struggles don’t give any sense of closure

-MagyKars (c) 8/2/2017

Blooming Bloody Flowers


Credits: Mahitha Kasireddi. Copyrighted Image.

Ice-bitten toes
couldn’t contain the
excitement anymore.
they tip-toed out of
the heavenly comfort
of cushy covers on
hearing the feeble crack
of burning maple twigs
and litter collected
from the backyard.
while combusting,
the pops sounded like
curious kids asking
a hundred questions.
“why do we do this?”
“why do we do this,
at this time of the day,
why not in the evening?”
spoons dipped in ghee,
incited the sparks;
further provoking the
dancing flame; like a
fox poisoning a cub’s
ears against the lion.
the blooming bloody
flower grew in size,
rocked in ecstasy,
throwing open it’s
arms; attempting to
pull towards itself,
my green, my grey
and black and casted
an orange-red haze in
my eyes; like a hot liquid
bronze metal poured
into a mould much
before chipping off the clay
after it cools; as through
i’m a diamond waiting to
glow the brightest white
for just once before dissolving
in the air; leaving no evidence
of its mass or volume. the fire-
it lends a piece of its heart,
the warmth that mothers
always have underneath
that unshakable demeanor.