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2 poems by Prithiva Sharma




Burning Houses


home is a place where I can't go It's broken windows and burnt down doors With knobs intact The guy who lived two houses down invites me for tea every time I go to relive the flames bursting through the open windows But I refuse because his house is a closed casket I won't be able to open I've never had the privilege to tell people I have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder To tell them my obsession with fire comes from my brain trying to overcompensate for it's fear Love isn't a two way street You can't reverse and turn around once you realise you're in the middle of a burning playground I never knew when I pulled the trigger but suddenly I was eating bullets And metal is not all that hard to chew when you're titanium Who made you this cold? The guy who lived two houses down asks me when I refused his offer for the twenty seventh time I wanted to tell him that the warmth bursting inside of me will burn his house down like it did mine, the bullets  that are my fingertips will inevitably end up in his skull, artistically placed for the purpose of autopsy I wanted to tell him that I am not made for the comfort he seeked to offer me, or the love he thought he could give me But instead i told him that I've never played with fire, and I don't intend to And I walked away Leaving behind a potential lover, a potential furnace,


Another home I will never be able to go back to



 

Seasons



He breathes seasons down my neck, and I tell him how spring is autumn and autumn is winter and winter never turns to spring and summer sits on my palm, scorching He takes out rains stuffed in his pockets and showers them over the terrain of my memory and I remember the last time I saw a rainbow He looks like a pendulum, moving to and fro in a constant movement, with words coming in spasms, and voice like chalks on sandpaper, weird and crass and sounds like home He has eyes made of charcoal and brows of turquoise, he smells like sapphire and emerald, and he hates rubies People call him a goldmine and I don't know why because everytime he lays from across me I see nothing but bare silence and naked desires He has aspirations engraved all over and he walks like he knows he is a piece of art, but he isn't, he is something beyond art, he is his own artist People say he is beautiful, I beg to differ because I have seen the underlying layers of toxic that comes with this beauty and he isn't beautiful he is a ghost with bones of destruction that melt under the scorching heat of the summer that rests on my palm




 




Prithiva Sharma is a 20 year old student from India, currently juggling a Bachelors in Arts, broke student life and of course, future plans. Despite having so much to do, you can be pretty damn sure she is procrastinating at this moment. 

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