I took birth in the dark. Blankets of loss. Loss of all light.
Mother had told.

An onyx bowl. A cavity. I came with a face untouched.
Untouched by sight.
Or so for the next thirty minutes.

I had limbs of clay. Molten clay. Shaped like rooms inside a room. A tongue hung in the epicenter. The scream is an elongation of the first grief.
Megawatts. Electric currents. Wires buzzing.
My voice tore away like brown suns falling into a pyre.

Still trying to discern heat from the burns.
Still finding its way back.

Sometimes when I warm into moist nights I burn like a sliced orange.
Orange flames on a steel plate.
It’s supernatural,
the ability to sense darkness with shut eyes.
Waking again. Birthing again into a trembling state of panic.
Deception. Betrayal. Fear.

It’s supernatural,
the accumulation of losses. Loss of all light.
The ability to sense darkness with eyes lit and the air bright.
Like the room outside all rooms. Never fading.
The inevitable failure of all mortal joys.

 

© Aakriti Kuntal

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