the damage that i have done —

shards of glass – precautions –
objects that instill confidence,
blade-sharp, plied twice-soft,
images of white-red before
my eyes, i think the only
way in is perhaps the way out,
to hurt and wound all that
is concrete and replacable,
foregoing the safety of soul
that has taken the beating,

i think of the innocent faces/
phases that belonged to me
once, distorted, in shambles
now, looking like a cold wind’s
harm on a hyphenated pause,

the pause lasting longer than
its due requirement, the pain
drinking its potion to bear itself,
leaving a scar of undefined,
carefully created proportions.

it’s not in satisfaction derived from plucking tears
that do not appear
but in the reacquisition of their absence
that i achieve my comforts —
material, magnanimous, marauding trusts
levied on a wretched man’s broken self.

the hurt that i have caused is my own
if not the rest.
and i figure that my unbecoming is
something that i have left,
as the youth creeps towards
its deep end.


© Anmol Arora

Image source (Hurt by Masako Simmons)