It’s my mind that kills me
with red black weapon, moments
and moments of death,
in my ribcage, broken and violet
often I am a dissolving piece of cracks
and a faded memory.
I count the moles of the dark anxiety
cloying sickness of stinking stress,
in the hollows of my unseen body parts,
it arises like a burning candle,
flame or vapid dreams.
One swollen teeth, two falling jaws
Appearances floating, matchbox inside
and there I am with my broken tainted lips
and a broken end of all
The guts often kill my empty breaths
an ornate skull of stark allusion.
I still cling to my twig,
to my bed, to my eyelids
to my pillow,
singing a happy-birthday song
until it’s my birthday
until, my arms spreading
and becoming strawberry meadow again.
Devika, a fierce soul who tries each day to deal with her anxiety levels is a poet lover, coming from the vibrant country of India. A lover of Oxymorons, Devika has been published in various journals where she speaks what all her insane mind could write.