Content Warning: Hints at death.
Today, I found a handful of your shadows in the attic,
holding a glass of rum;
Father, you said that grief was just a
sting of scorpion lurking under the carpet
waiting to latch on my skin
but you see, I shed my skin
like a sharpened jaw spitting out
seeds from rotten blackberries
igniting sweet gasoline on the kitchen table
sprouting from the acid burning my tongue
till there's no distinction left between blood and water.
So today when I saw a part of you linger in the attic,
I set the entire roof aflame; fuming smoke to the pregnant grey clouds,
till a realisation of translated aching ebbed across my spine;
grief is like angst
with a wheelbarrow glistened to it
It always finds a way to slit your back.
Kashvi is a Literature student from Delhi, India. When not writing, she can be often found in a cafe admiring the works of Sartre and Kafka. Her poems have been published/ are forthcoming in Rust and Moth literary journal, Stone of Madness press, Dreams walking amongst others. She is the Editor-In-Chief of a literary magazine called The Remnant Archive. @kashvichandok on Instagram and @25_kashvi on Twitter.