Exorcism || by Anushri Nanavati



by Anushri Nanavati

It's November.

I've spent this year mapping out my veins,

Tracing the sickening blue ropes

Lashing me, noose pressed to my throat,

To a life I never wanted to live:

These breaths choked out, your ghost

Drawn in, unwanted, with each

Heave of sprained diaphragm.

I've spent bloated nights, blearily

Truncated by anomia, drowning

And deafening, eviscerated:

A finger, a waxen sickle, running

Along a hacking sneer of moon-binged

Blade, regurgitated, rusted with

Old blood, old blood, old, old, old

Blood, dried blood, cold blood.

Dead blood. 

I've spent these words chalking out

Death plans, paracetamol and diphen

Hydramine, the precise overdose,

Scrawling out rope lengths, nine feet

To be safe (oh the irony) and the right

Knot—the one thing that won't come undone;

Eight floors up, jump, not fall, there's

A comfort in certainty, the one thing

That's bound to condone permanence

An end.

I've spent these days ripping out my veins,

Stripping skin from bones, everything

And anything you ever touched:

I've tried, and it's not enough.

Anushri Nanavati is a poet and the founder of Haiku & Hymns in Ahmedabad, India, where she teaches creative writing, literature, psychology, history, and foreign languages. She has recently published her second poetry collection titled, "Birds, Bones, & Melancholia," based on her mental health journey so far.


Post a Comment

Post a Comment (0)
Fiery Scribe Review