Soumili Mukherjee

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my Self is puppetted in Your image
a nightmarish caricature of someone i might have known
now stranger
as i am crushed into the dirt
left to crumble where my skin may find solace
only with something of its kind
a gruesome scene that i observe from someplacenothere
It paints spirals of blood into the back of my skull
until nothing is real
until the cruel fantasy that constricts my lungs is
indistinguishable from the shadows that slink across the walls
and the smiles adorning Their faces

and so i wait
(ever patiently)
for the next time you arrive
to take back what was wrongfully stolen
and mutilated into something unrecognizable
to graciously relieve me of the masquerade that is my Self
if but for a moment
so that something might be
simple
again

rise (see yesterday (tomorrow) for treble voice and piano)

what do we do with the bud that does not wish to bloom?
for whom the spring sun is too bright to face
while She still grieves for the wilted petals in the dirt
only recently blown away and forgotten
and She braces for the same fate to come for Her.

whatever shall we do when the Earth no longer wants Her bounty?
when the warmth of the dirt and the glow of green grows too much
when She could no sooner pick out every weed than every blossoming flower
—who is She other than the forest that has taken over Her body?
longing to catch a glimpse of blue through the lush and vibrant canopy
thick like her own blood
She feels as if She has no breath
and chokes on the thought.
whatever shall we do
when She cannot bear to see the fruit on the branch while it is ripe?

fragile

everything i hold in my arms grows
frail, as the days go by.
thin and brittle, and
falling apart
torn away from me
in the passing wind
like autumn leaves from
dying branches

and i wouldn't hold you closer if i
could
for fear of breaking you further
in a grip too clumsy,
too much for a fragile form.
and every step forward i take is met with a
horrifying crunch beneath my feet

so i brace myself as
the strength leaks from my veins
and my limbs go weak,
finally giving up on me, too.
and i watch my life blow away as
everyone i hold in my arms grows
frailer still

(see Alice, again, for solo bassoon)

the ache in my chest is made of
shadows cast by trees in a
crimson setting sun
and the many ghosts of
myself that
wade in the grass beneath it

and misshapen goodbyes
each a knot in my throat where
a passing glace or blissfully
ignorant huff could not be
moulded into something more
soothing to swallow

and a bare wall that
cannot feel familiar when it
does and does not feel familiar when it
must

and a vase of flowers
that i cannot bear to look at until they have
wilted

embodied

i will find my body
in the space between myself and the smallest death
that i'll never reach and never deserve.
in raw wrists and marred skin.

i will find my body
on the cross, begging
to be used and finally thrown away.
to sin enough to be seen,
to sin enough to be saved.

i will find my body
somewhere i don't remember leaving it.
a pit it was thrown to where i could
never retrace my steps.
where it can be dirtied enough to be
cleaned.

i will find my body
through the sweat and
blood and spit and tears and blood and
sweat and blood and blood and

i will find it
pressed up against the railing
on it's knees
in a blur of
nothing.

i will find my body
teetering on the fine line between
pleasure and pain.
I will find it where it might be real.