roots.

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a cup of coffee,a stack of books,and a disheveled bed;
windows painted shut and grey walls closing in on me,
i tell myself that no room is unhaunted.
my mother's old sarees, decrepit and dusty,
lie silent on the other side of the door.
they smell of heartbreaks and burning suns.
i wonder how many roads did she have to walk down before she became her.
i wonder how many roads i would have to walk down before i become her.
my pillows tinted flesh carry the weight of my chains,
except that i'm not quite sure if they're chains or poems.
or my own veins for that matter.
now watch me struggle to eat raw air.
now watch me get asphyxiated by
swallowing pain;
rooted in the memories of a woman 
whose eyes resemble mine.

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