Somehow, the taste of tear gas

A walkway through the crystal-clear lies

the way there was complete silence when you lied for the first time. You opened your eyes

Geronimo rushed inside the hole coughing, somehow managing to shut the door behind him. His mother Telapatra grabbed her son, hugging her tight for an instant before smacking him across the back. “How many times did I tell you not to go out at this hour?” cried Telapatra.

the bullet hole/ in my brother's chest/ unfolds like a pandora's box

My father speaks in a dismantled language that goes up in  smoke. 

justice—where is justice?

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