Where voices unite, a chorus strong, / Demanding justice, righting wrong

The Notorious Loverboy, Slum Boy and Millionaire’s Daughter, My Bride or My Mother, My Mother’s Body in a Wedding Saree,

I feel my rage, ma, a living thing;/ A beast, caged, like me

All that I’d despicably known / Things I wish I didn’t know–

Skin sticky with perspiration from a long month of June 

What I wish I didn’t know is that when your dear friends whisper the word “psycho” behind your back, you’ll grow up accepting it.

You must have heard the story of your birth a thousand times by now, sweetheart. Your mother and I—home alone.

I skip talking to myself for hours / The “me time”, before going to bed

If you travel on a bus, always take the window seat.

Is it true that when we migrate, we lose a few people from our past?

Again, I wasn’t a poet, but words and sentences jumbled up seeing that small face, light make-up enhancing her beauty. A loose strand of hair cascaded down her cheek, framing her face.

It was not a question one would ask as he did/ With his round glasses at the end of his nose

i quite like the smell of cloves, even more when they're burning/ turning charcoal in front of my eyes

This is a garden, these are my petals; this is my armoring plant

The majority of my early childhood was spent in a big house filled with endless possibilities. At least, that’s what my preteen self thought at the time.

Sweat beads upon my brow, my shirt begins to cling/ The vile monster's tendrils reach out, adhesive

I've seen love/ Rolling down from a mother's eyes/ As she picks her lean child, bathed in innocent blood

go further than/ what the hills have seen/ through their ice pick scars

When there’s a lull in the air, I get the feeling that I’ve scraped the bottom of my fleshy insides.

Dust patterns have gathered around my landline phone, huddling around the maroon. my fingerprints take some dust off of it, and they rejoice.