Still.

Photo by Max van den Oetelaar on Unsplash

Even in green grass

some moments are grey — I seldom open

my mouth for the weight of my jaw, reluctant

eyelids, deep-set sockets —

and some do smear, into weeks

of wet grape stems, overcast

and overfull stomachs, voices through double-paned

glass, sleeping in,

I am a walking pamphlet. How could it escape me?

I cry at news good and bad

but there is not even an infant-impression

of excitement; I forget those emotions

that do not come forced. That I cannot hang up

to soak in the sun. My fingers become stuck

tugging through knotted hair: bursts of failed endeavors

along my scalp — still,

I can sense my life

under my finger, as if a groove in the woodwork.

An unbroken line from here. It is dark — but haptic,

my nerves still feel, and they fire:

there are steps I trace, they aren’t taken —

gentle furious one at a time —

but when they end, they are withered. Now, my footprint

is far too light. Imprinted with innocence,

tingling with whispers of you have no idea

what happens next

I am taking the Ferris Wheel

over and over again, pocket jingling

with sweaty tokens, waiting for that moment

when the sun just parts the clouds

and I am finally high enough to catch it,

when my head is turned,

when my eyes are open, and unshaking.

Recalling a voice from across

the field, erupting in my mouth, saying:

The world is beautiful — we will see it

all tomorrow.

And for the moment it is fine

to look down

September is Suicide Prevention Month. Day and night, we are each fighting battles that seem to span unbridgeable gulfs. There are only two things I can offer in the face of this struggle: art, and the knowledge that you are worth the battle you are fighting. There is probably no destination of happiness that we are going to arrive at one day, but within the mundanity of our lives there are gems we uncover — and we deserve to find all of them. Some things make the searching and finding easier: go after them like mad. And above all, talk. We are each fighting battles that seem to span unbridgeable gulfs. Perhaps the only bridges we can build are between us.

--

--

--

she/her. intersectional feminist and lover of poetry. varshasenthilwrites@gmail.com

Love podcasts or audiobooks? Learn on the go with our new app.

Recommended from Medium

Give Me That Green Light

‘ To loves end’

Books on my bedside

Get the Medium app

A button that says 'Download on the App Store', and if clicked it will lead you to the iOS App store
A button that says 'Get it on, Google Play', and if clicked it will lead you to the Google Play store
Varsha Senthil

Varsha Senthil

she/her. intersectional feminist and lover of poetry. varshasenthilwrites@gmail.com

More from Medium

What Patience Is

“If Life Was a Building”

About Time