Hands can be soothing for those who eat darkness.
They spend their nights muttering fallacies off-
their half cut wrists and bleeding hearts.
Their parched lips hold surreptitious essence of
what it like to swallow realms of fanned ashes,
ashes of the graveyards and the past-
so morose, they still trickle down your spine,
inviting a sudden haemorrhage of pale- listlessness.
So hold them, tightly.
About the Poet: Khushi is a young writer born and bred in New Delhi. She has a thing for reckless abandons, momos with red chutney and ghaati music. She is usually the only one laughing on her own jokes and washed her clothes with scotch bright for an entire month!
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