his mind was a graveyard,
and the maternity ward of a rundown hospital,
at the same time.
๐ณ๐ฆ๐ฆ๐ฌ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ ๐ฐ๐ง ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ข๐ต๐ฉ
๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐ง๐ฐ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ด๐ฉ๐ข๐ฅ๐ฐ๐ธ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ ๐ช๐ต ๐ข๐ต ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ด๐ข๐ฎ๐ฆ ๐ต๐ช๐ฎ๐ฆ.
and he reminded me of the attic of the house,
that my mother grew up in,
the house that my grandparents sold later on.
๐ด๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ญ๐ญ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ ๐ฐ๐ง ๐ข ๐ญ๐ฐ๐ด๐ต ๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ฎ๐ฆ,
๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐ข ๐ด๐ค๐ข๐ต๐ต๐ฆ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ค๐ฉ๐ช๐ญ๐ฅ๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ฐ๐ฅ.
but most of all,
he reminded me of me.
๐ข๐ฏ ๐ถ๐ฑ๐ณ๐ฐ๐ฐ๐ต๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ธ๐ฆ๐ฆ๐ฅ,
๐ฎ๐ช๐ด๐ต๐ข๐ฌ๐ฆ๐ฏ ๐ง๐ฐ๐ณ ๐ข ๐ง๐ญ๐ฐ๐ธ๐ฆ๐ณ.
of the insatiable urge to be held,
and reassured, and touched,
and heard.
๐ฆ๐ฎ๐ฑ๐ต๐บ ๐ค๐ถ๐ฑ๐ด ๐ธ๐ช๐ต๐ฉ ๐ค๐ฐ๐ง๐ง๐ฆ๐ฆ ๐ด๐ต๐ข๐ช๐ฏ๐ด,
๐ฅ๐ช๐ณ๐ต๐บ ๐ฌ๐ฏ๐ช๐ท๐ฆ๐ด ๐ช๐ฏ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ด๐ช๐ฏ๐ฌ.
his body was a piece of art.
tracing my finger up his spine,
i could feel the universe under my hands.
๐ธ๐ฆ ๐ญ๐ฐ๐ท๐ฆ ๐ธ๐ฉ๐ข๐ต ๐ธ๐ฆ ๐ฅ๐ฐ ๐ฏ๐ฐ๐ต ๐ถ๐ฏ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ณ๐ด๐ต๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ,
๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐ธ๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ฏ ๐ธ๐ฆ ๐ญ๐ฐ๐ท๐ฆ ๐ธ๐ฉ๐ข๐ต ๐ธ๐ฆ ๐ถ๐ฏ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ณ๐ด๐ต๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ, ๐ธ๐ฆ ๐ด๐ช๐ฏ.
i used to run my palms over his back,
licking the curve of his spine,
whispering to his scars.
๐ธ๐ฆ'๐ณ๐ฆ ๐ด๐ค๐ข๐ณ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ฐ๐ง ๐ธ๐ฉ๐ข๐ต ๐ค๐ฐ๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ด ๐ธ๐ช๐ต๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ต ๐ฑ๐ข๐ช๐ฏ,
๐ด๐ฐ ๐ธ๐ฆ ๐ง๐ข๐ญ๐ญ ๐ช๐ฏ ๐ญ๐ฐ๐ท๐ฆ ๐ธ๐ช๐ต๐ฉ ๐ช๐ฏ๐ฆ๐ท๐ช๐ต๐ข๐ฃ๐ญ๐ฆ ๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ข๐ณ๐ต๐ฃ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ข๐ฌ๐ด.
my breath lingers on his chest,
and caresses his neck.
i breathe in through my mouth.
๐ช ๐ค๐ฐ๐ถ๐ญ๐ฅ ๐ต๐ข๐ฌ๐ฆ ๐ฐ๐ง๐ง ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ณ ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ด๐ต๐ณ๐ข๐ช๐ฏ๐ต๐ด,
๐ฃ๐ถ๐ต ๐ธ๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ฏ ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถ'๐ณ๐ฆ ๐ง๐ณ๐ฆ๐ฆ, ๐ธ๐ช๐ญ๐ญ ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถ ๐ญ๐ฆ๐ต ๐ฎ๐ฆ ๐จ๐ฐ?
my voice echoes against the bare walls,
a harmony of sirens howling,
i don't want to be heard.
๐ฎ๐บ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ณ๐ฐ๐ข๐ต ๐ช๐ด ๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ข๐ณ๐ด๐ฆ ๐ง๐ณ๐ฐ๐ฎ ๐ฏ๐ฐ๐ต ๐ด๐ค๐ณ๐ฆ๐ข๐ฎ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ,
๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ฃ๐ช๐ต๐ต๐ฆ๐ณ ๐ธ๐ฐ๐ณ๐ฅ๐ด ๐ค๐ญ๐ข๐ธ ๐ข๐ต ๐ฎ๐บ ๐ฃ๐ญ๐ฐ๐ฐ๐ฅ๐บ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ณ๐ฐ๐ข๐ต.
my hair falls on your face and it crumples.
your touch is bitter and i let you,
crush me into powdery dust.
๐ช ๐ฉ๐ข๐ท๐ฆ ๐ญ๐ฆ๐ต ๐ฎ๐บ ๐ญ๐ฐ๐ท๐ฆ ๐ธ๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ณ ๐ข๐ญ๐ญ ๐ฐ๐ท๐ฆ๐ณ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ช๐ด ๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ด๐ฆ
๐ญ๐ช๐ฌ๐ฆ ๐ช ๐ฉ๐ข๐ท๐ฆ ๐ฎ๐บ ๐ฉ๐ข๐ช๐ณ, ๐ข๐ญ๐ญ ๐ฐ๐ท๐ฆ๐ณ ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถ.
the sound of thunder rumbling,
as i fumble with the buttons on my shirt.
the sky warns me but i go on.
๐ฆ๐ท๐ฆ๐ณ๐บ ๐ช๐ฏ๐ค๐ฉ ๐ฐ๐ง ๐ฎ๐บ ๐ด๐ฌ๐ช๐ฏ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ข๐ต ๐ฉ๐ข๐ด ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐ฆ๐ฏ ๐ฌ๐ช๐ด๐ด๐ฆ๐ฅ,
๐ง๐ฆ๐ฆ๐ญ๐ด ๐ญ๐ช๐ฌ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ช๐ต ๐ฉ๐ข๐ด ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐ฆ๐ฏ ๐ต๐ฐ๐ถ๐ค๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ฃ๐บ ๐ญ๐ช๐จ๐ฉ๐ต๐ฏ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ.
the first drops of september rain,
hit my face with a gentle intensity,
similar to the way we kiss each other goodbye.
๐ข๐ถ๐จ๐ถ๐ด๐ต ๐ด๐ญ๐ข๐ฎ๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ฅ๐ฐ๐ฐ๐ณ ๐ช๐ฏ ๐ฎ๐บ ๐ง๐ข๐ค๐ฆ,
๐ธ๐ช๐ญ๐ญ ๐ด๐ฆ๐ฑ๐ต๐ฆ๐ฎ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐ณ ๐ฃ๐ฆ ๐ข๐ด ๐ฌ๐ช๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐ข๐ด ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถ ๐ฉ๐ข๐ท๐ฆ ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐ฆ๐ฏ?
the fingers curling around my wrists,
turn the butterflies in my stomach
into stones, but they don't weigh me down.
๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ต๐ช๐ฎ๐ฆ ๐ง๐ฐ๐ณ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ด๐ฑ๐ข๐ณ๐ฌ๐ด ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ฅ๐ช๐ฆ ๐ฉ๐ข๐ด ๐ค๐ฐ๐ฎ๐ฆ,
๐ช ๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ฑ๐ฆ ๐ช๐ต ๐ฅ๐ฐ๐ฆ๐ด ๐ฏ๐ฐ๐ต ๐ฅ๐ณ๐ข๐จ ๐ถ๐ด ๐ฅ๐ฐ๐ธ๐ฏ ๐ต๐ฐ๐ฐ.
i run my fingers all over your scarred skin,
your breath fans my face and my smile widens.
i let go and hold on tighter at the same time.
๐ธ๐ช๐ญ๐ญ ๐ช ๐ฃ๐ฆ ๐ฃ๐ข๐ค๐ฌ ๐ข๐จ๐ข๐ช๐ฏ ๐ต๐ฐ๐ฎ๐ฐ๐ณ๐ณ๐ฐ๐ธ, ๐ธ๐ฆ ๐ฒ๐ถ๐ฆ๐ด๐ต๐ช๐ฐ๐ฏ.
๐ช ๐ฌ๐ฏ๐ฐ๐ธ ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถ ๐ธ๐ช๐ญ๐ญ, ๐ธ๐ฆ ๐ธ๐ฉ๐ช๐ด๐ฑ๐ฆ๐ณ.
Brishti Samaddar is a budding poet who searches for poetry in between the lines of science textbooks and scratches poems into half written assignments with the hope that her poetry will survive in places she struggles to.