Pulse Poem by Anuradha Bhattacharyya

Let go of that slimy tongue
That slithered over my wound
And made me numb
Towards the ever present.

It’s like asking me
What’s life for, fingering
A sore spot, bloodying
An already gory identity.

Let go of that cold hand
Which cotton gloved
Gave me an impression
Of cherished moments.

You handled a delicate balance
So insensitively!
I told you it’s none of your
Little girl’s play.

You who has barged in
I said get out
This is not the right place
To dwell in!

Clawing at my heart
In this scorching summer of love
you touch a broken sapling
All the more brokenly.

And let go all of a sudden
With such vehemence
As if
It was I who made things worse!

No matter what
You are not
What I wanted;
I said get out!

In the cold dark night
Of filthy romance
My pulse rises in outrage,
That I chastised my butt for nothing.

This feathered pillow
That cushioned your head
Sometime ago
Now reeks of blood

That you spilled from my pulse
Confessing deceit,
Disarmed, disbanded,
Strewn as splinters,
Unlike what all I had to offer.

That being of blood
Hollowed out many times
Cries out get out
You are not what I wanted!

I shall not conceive in you
The princess, I had set out to win,
Nor shall I think
Of Cinderella in distress,
If ever again
I set my eyes upon your face,
However harsh your facts may be;
I shall only know it’s pretense,
A frigid armour under your dress.