The radio is a blend of static and silence
this morning, bearing some semblance
to every brooding corner of this house
I am two parts rage and one part resilience,
I sit with my head out the broken window pane,
wondering who would explain the tarnished wooden floor
that creaks under my step, and the scarlet cinnabar under my bed
wilted dandelions hang from the roof, like spiders
that hang deep in my throat from cobwebs,
mapping every nook and cranny of my brain

12 seconds of daydream and
I’m 12 feet underwater— harrowing, stealing breath
fighting the erratic pulse that engulfs me with a feeling of malice.
I take a step back,
running from myself but only so far
now my hands are tied and the days cry out for meaning

Miles of winter moorland, I walk barefoot and lonely,
for a hiraeth that’s rooted deep in my marrow
and keep the bed warm for a distressed lover
who only calls my goddamn name like I am tainted desire
so I disregard the girl who stares weakly back at me from
behind the mirror, into death’s opal eyes
to the spirits that linger in the hallway
my keepers, they feed on the tangerine drips from the roof,
it tastes one part salty and three parts sorrow

Winter came in for a minute
breaking through the boarded windows
and suddenly I am aware I have nothing to lose,
or everything all at once—
like battleships balancing on cresting waves
minutes before embracing the unprecedented death
I watch myself turn into a shapeless stranger who
wears my disguise, through gritted teeth and
clenched fists, crescent moons pitting my palms
that recount the story of my heart slowing down
(my unmaking)
eyes locked tight, I feel it through my freezing hands
a niche so sweet it takes my breath away.

supriya a.

‘this is me trying’, ts

lately there’s been this song, ‘this is me trying’ which i am honestly, unconditionally obsessed with and it almost feels like a perfect lyrical projection of everything that i’ve been going through/feeling since quite long now. this might seem unlikely because nothing particularly looks misaligned on the outside about my life but i know how hard it has always been for me to try and adjust and make sure that i fit in, an inner conflict that slowly rusted anything good that i might have initially started with. i cannot bring myself to restore all that i’ve lost my grip upon because it’s overwhelming, because i think i am complicit with an inescapable cycle of self destructive and regressive behavior.

i’ve often been told that all my problems are a manifestation of my mentality, that “it’s all in my head” but i refuse to believe so. why, there must be some reason for all this mindless torment which drives me a little closer to the great abyss every single day. there must be some explanation to why i wasted all my potential and got stuck in an endless loop of infinite dimensions and can’t seem to find my way back out. i am deeply unsatisfied over everything i write because i find it nothing more than a poorly conjectured and dramatic proclamation of love, of my utmost conviction to have put up with a toxic lover and danced around him like a mayfly dancing around blinding lights until ultimately getting burned itself. i kept replaying the memories like flashbacks on a film reel and never made space for another. i know how desperate and torturous that is but it’s all i had for the longest of time and soon realized what a hell loop i was in. i had to unshackle myself before getting deemed an absurd Sisyphus who must struggle perpetually and ultimately give in and find happiness in this hopeless struggle. 

i was very fond of everything golden and shiny as a little girl, who braided her hair into new patterns every night. it was as if i had convinced myself to the reality that adding some shimmering beauty would not only glorify anything featureless but almost instantly prompt my endearment towards it. i never learned in my blissfully unaware childhood that letting go of certain things that you believe you can’t rid off is crucial even when it feels like discarding a part of yourself, your own flesh. this is particularly why, growing up, my demeanor towards anything gone slightly awry would always be sympathetic or apologetic or i would take it upon myself to try and do everything i could to mend it. i HAD to prove the fact that i always had a solution, that i could single handedly change things for the better, no matter how worse of a condition they might be in. maybe that was my coping mechanism towards my personal insecurities, the constant fear i had of not doing or being enough all the time, fading to the background like a song that’s long forgotten. it’s funny that i write all of these in past when i know it for a fact that nothing has particularly changed in the matter and i still remain to be so profusely obsessive. i ask why but find no answer to it. 

maybe someday when i’ve liberated myself from the feeling of being at the edge all the time and i’ve learned that measuring oneself against others on the bell curve is an irredeemable failure in itself, that being self critical is fine as long as the depreciation comes from a place of awareness and acceptance of oneself, i’ll finally find a fitting-piece in the greater puzzle that is life. untill then i guess i’ll just keep trying.


house by the sea

four years ago, I built the foundation
of a house by the sea
knowing well in my heart that the gurgling tides
would creek in through the pipes.
High-end French windows and purple drapes,
with children running through the long hallways,
wild and unruly—
like the garden in the backyard
where I grew up playing house with my sister
under a red dupatta
Maybe for the first time in years
their hearts wouldn’t be frantic
to the echoes of a distant siren wailing
and drones targeting their homes
Everytime the water crashes and slams the walls,
I would hold their bruised hands
and rush them to the attic
I would hush each one in turn and placate
him/her with stories of kings and their horses,
of battles lost and won and dragons flying
When the sea water finally sloshes in,
and soon there would be nothing but remains
of the purple drapes
that couldn’t obscure light or drafts,
I would promise them peace (finally)
and whisper a prayer to the blue and the skies.
Supriya Acharjee

the ancient land

Halfway around the world, an ancient land
rips open into a chasm of utter distress
A forlorn heart, a battle ground where birds refuse to chirp
It’s almost silly to my cynical head,
for I’ve never believed in stories with fairytale ends

The lamp on my bedpost flickers
feeding the turmoil in my chest
like the rest of my existence
like the words I blurt, or the promises you made, an uncertain Mayfly painted gray
My cerebrum is replaced by a labyrinth of empty hallways inside my skull
I walk around aimlessly and loop into the same treasured crest,
Do they talk about sanity?

Time ticks endlessly, it’s a mocking reminder
The kind that makes you want to tear back your own flesh and bleed all night, then turn the grief upside down, lest they find out
I halt back to reality
To now, the ledge I’m walking on
for once I want to hear my own skin,
a parchment of eternal longing, miles of it

Must I give in to the tethered signals,
Compared no less with the ghastly will-o’-the-wisp? I know not
So I travel to the ancient land, seeking answers while I can, lapsing into forgetfulness
A chasm pops open in my chest, trying to engulf me whole
Now it shall rain forever and I shall go to sleep.

Supriya Acharjee

Whole again

I hear you’re looking for answers to the same old questions again;
to how and when
It’s almost like autumn when I reminisce the curious look in your eyes,
concentrating hard to explore a town that I’ve never been to (heard of)
You ask where did I lose the parts of me,
splintered and broken to their very last units;
the ones that I’ve forgotten names to
I wonder if I know where.
Maybe it was the small town that didn’t smell of bakeries and chocolate and where the smiling eyes of a stranger never met mine
Maybe it was the prevailing blue sky which I fantasized would turn pink as the hours slipped through my fingers
Or maybe it was the café that you walked out of in aggression while I strangled behind, forgetting the bruises on my feet.
There’s a deranged part of me in all of those places, waiting to be whole again,
to become one with the core that breathed them to life
“Is that possible?”, you ask
No, that was me.
I am floating in a sea of doubts,
surrounded by nothingness all around
I didn’t jump in wearing a life vest,
nor did I know the depths ahead of time
You still want your answers while I sit here trying to fathom what you ask.
It’s a cycle,
an endless loop
just how it was in autumn time.

~Supriya Acharjee

The Kill

You said things, I said things; by heart by blood. There it is. We are related. But, look! We are hanging on to the edges of a fragile strand, a promise, “I will care, I will protect. I will be there”.

We hit the gear forgetting how tough the roads can get. “Are we going to make it to the morning? Are we going to get through the storm?”

Fate smiled, along smiled the blizzard, drawing out every ember that burned. “We will make it through, we care, remember? That’s all that matters.”

But nothing holds good against what you truly are when you’re tormented, when you’re the Archer. Against all novelties there stands words. Swift as an arrow, sharp as a knife; bridging differences before you know and destroying with the blink of an eye.

As the night changed colour, we saw it clearer. We were standing at crossroads. I looked into your eyes, burning like the remains of a battle ground, gleaming in a vicious glare. Or were they mine?

“I’ve made a reckless mistake, I’ve made a kill. Now I cry before a friend, asking for pity, for forgiveness to my undefined frailty. All these dimensions and multitudes seem unreal to me, raging flames of guilt consuming me.

The snow never drifts away, the blizzard has ended. Time stood still for Summers and Septembers and I cried till I lost every battle in time.

I’ve made a kill, now it dawns upon me, it cost me a friend. All day, for time immemorial, I cry until I make yet another sin.”

Supriya Acharjee

Picture courtesy: @Pinterest

Stuck in time

The sense of time is overwhelming sometimes
It’s like the snow that never drifts to give way for spring.
You can’t remember the smell of summer, and in your mind you wish for the same
Stories of vintage love and stolen kisses,
cling to my head like a picture from yesterday
It must be a dream, for yesterday I didn’t exist.

I have hidden hundreds of roses inside those pages; the ones that I held close to my chest
A line of dirt covers them now
What a shame, oh! You never found the words I had carved on my flesh with all the glitters.
But pieces don’t fall into place here
One minute it’s sunshine in a meadow
and next I’m dancing in the storm
I have been moving in circles this whole time. I can’t see no end, I can’t escape. I am stuck.

Its raining stars tonight, and I can’t wait to paint them red in my poetry
Yet I fail. I fail to unveil the sheer depth of a moment that I no longer hold;
One that’s ruined like a Ghost town
Nothing looks the same anymore
So I tell myself, “Remember:
You cannot tame all wilderness with love,
Let the flames turn to ember.”

Supriya Acharjee

Picture courtesy: @Pinterest

All the lies

It’s delusional. It’s all a lie.
The lie you told yourself while decorating your shire with the prettiest of fairy lights;
filled it with a crescendo of stars.
Take a step in closer. Look into the burning flames of the fire you started
A dark premonition lies there; beneath your bed with the ghosts that haunt you.

The terrible distance only hymns the melody,
it’s the fear that scripts the words.
Maybe lies are sometimes colourful,
but a salve to your guilt isn’t enough as promise.
You’ve been to places, but never really seen
the darkest alleys under the glimmering moonlight;
just so beautifully tragic.

Remember getting lost in the grim, wild edges
and the pouring rain that washed all your pastels away.
Maybe that would remind you of a time when you threw your head back laughing;
when it wasn’t all too perilous and seemed to fit in.

At the end of the day, it’s another game you play
another work of your hands
And at the edge of midnight when you’re sitting by the window, you realize
I am the lie that you tell yourself every night.

~Supriya Acharjee

Story of dismal ending

The pouring rain recounted me a story
Story of dismal ending, of lost love and longing

Rendered speechless I listened to your ominous music,
Music of your desirous eyes

Do you remember? Of the echoes we heard aforetime?
Two young hearts who got into this ruthless culture together,
Broke through walls and tasted galaxies in one another.

Blooming autumn caressed my untamed thoughts,
Until I looked around and you weren’t by my side.

How long can this flickering candle guide me?
How long till we’re reduced to a memory in time?

My heart twinges on reading the last page,
And hoping against hope, I beg you to stay

The magic in your veins had our souls united;
Only now, I kindle the last of the October letters you’d written

An aching heart you had healed, Love
And an aching heart you are to leave behind

But forever will you bide in this bosom of mine,
Like golden rays of unspent sunshine.

Tonight, I look back in time, hold on to the memories of days long gone
Because to this winter of desolation
there is no summer, none.

~Supriya Acharjee

Picture courtesy: @Pinterest