The Noresoup Jukebox

Dear Misty May,  i cried the whole of last week i missed the trees in my old campus  and the flowers that bloomed week after week today i took a different path i looked at the world around me i remember mordechai lifting my head up high so i did this time and indeed i did see a tree so golden bearing leaves like maple trees and fruits in bunches like all those soft red figs when i walked further  the wind rushed through the block and the leaves danced with it i haven't heard the leaves sing in too long i had company the past two days lauren was here with me and though all she did was stay,  silently did she take care of me when she asked me if i wanted warm water i didn't hesitate and said yes and all the days i never bothered to make my silly bed - gone in a blink i'd walk out and she'd be there yesterday the sky was blue now it is an awful gray if only i could have you if only then, misty may i imagine i wouldn't be so blue college is getting better i think i migh...

my right knee cap hurts from last summer i drove a friend around - argument with a boyfriend and then i climbed a hill  with a guy who would've fared better had he pushed me off the cliff burns and scabs all over my skin it's funny how the body knows when winter rolled around,  the cold bit the bone and i limped all the way home a few winters ago - the same friend ruined my Italian leather boots and this winter, told me to learn the language i should've told her i knew a few when the soul is forgotten and only allowed to speak in hushed tones when the self you've nurtured  is buried and isn't allowed to grow when the sun is a dull soul when it cages what is meant to be freed it's funny how the body knows and it will tell you loudly and unapologetically without fail always always.

mice - billie marten i write little about my months in Kolkata  i do not care to remember  the dampness, the heat, their cruelty  but often, the sun was me i had time leftover in Kolkata  i sang often, i wrote incessantly  the girls avoided me like the plague but often, the sun was me i broke all my bones in Kolkata and the marrow dried out like leaves falling, drying up, browning  and often, the sun was me  i sat alone in a dark theatre in Kolkata  solitude is cruel when love is in the marrow but the marrow dries out and dies  and still, the sun was me

ice melt - crumb its the sunniest it's been since my winter vacations  and the prettiest sunset ive seen in Delhi yet a blue fading into yellow bleeding into orange then pitch black into the horizon  when our flight was still yet 4 hours away i sat behind my brother in the driver's seat jazz playing, holding my mother's hand, arm rest between us the dried blood that pooled under my skin fell off  like the heels that broke before new year's day's church service sunny unlike the cloudy winter i had to say goodbye to i was grateful for the extra 4 hours my mother knew i was pregnant with dread and only women know what it means to be full of fear of the unknown last night mordechai and the eldest came over we had whiskey and wine and fed the bonfire laughter  it was full before we decided to leave for lemon cake philosophical discourse, questions about religion making fun of our differences  savouring who we are, missing each other before the seat is empty i wish i ...

I want to love someone like the man who loved me over summer: incessant, unapologetic, honest. I like to honour him that way - even though he was merely obsessed with his idea of me. My kindness is painting him with duller colours, so the red that seeped out of his soul is confused for the colour running from my hair into the water. I am learning that my womanhood is often enough when it stands alone, though wound with tradition. The first man who loved me taught me that: regardless of my wit, my passion, it was enough to look pretty, to die, to have my womanhood resurrected as a mother. He never cared to know me at all. So when a richer man came by, I was no longer surprised that he could only speak of himself - careless, selfish words about his honour. The only thing I marvelled at was the cheesecake in the counter, and how it was my mother at 35, my five-year-old self in a green jacket. And with every move he made, I was glad to be spending his money. Then...