strawberry smoothie swirling with syrupy lies,
quenches her tempting thirst,
as she jogs 9 rounds around the queen’s necklace,
now lined with stolen tombstones from her aloof steel trunks;
for her to get stuck in an infinite loop of stumbling on different shades of foundation sticks;
that match her calloused skin as she paeans young lily buds on these tombstones.
strawberry lips smeared with moisture clumps,
never bit into apple seeds,
but germinate brown apple seedlings in cold warehouses,
to poison yet not permit the death of tiny legs,
shackled with shimmering trinkets of her fallen dyed hair.
she doesn’t know the science of articulation,
but numbers of sabbatical methods to perform whimsical horticulture in warm voice boxes of him and hers;
-a holy ceremony she performs before tying the knot between dupattas carefully placed on the number of necks,
as beautifully printed scarves,
to hide tasteless inscriptions of harmed rishtas.
abandoned knots continue to wipe the froth forming on the corner of her rosebay mouth,
for her venomous oyster shells to shine,
among the clicking of new typewriters and eager mustaches behind the rocketing circuits.
the dupattas remain in the same positions
and smell of naphthalene balls rubbed on their colorful armpits,
for them to pickle the knots in a puree of strawberry lips and lies.
when I met her,
I made murals of her dyed strands,
and hid them behind the dried dupattas;
swinging on braided nylon rope with no arms and legs,
for them to shower only handmade pastels
on epoch canvas;
and not weeping eyes on a mishmash journal.
she wrote me dozen love letters,
during the late hour of collapsing asteroids,
sealed with kisses of her melting lip balms,
and shushed the syllables,
by imposing her finger on my lips.
I still hold the stationary syllables sewn to my nude chest,
where they profusely perspire when I breathe 6 sighs in 60 seconds;
60 seconds sometimes turn 120;
but 6th sigh trails long enough for the asteroids to hit the ground and chew the surface hollow.
This is to say that, someday I will resend those letters after applying her lip balm,
and sprinkles of baby talcum staining the stationary syllables,
which is to say, stains of strawberry lips and lies will someday execute my murder crime-free;
I and the letters will remain unseen.
//and someday her vanity suitcases will ebb with dandruff dripping from the chafed neck of her cuticle and slowly kill the extravagant fragrances of expired makeup supplies.//
Vartika is a biotechnology graduate, who loves to sip poetry with her morning tea. You can reach her on insta at @vartika