crimson pincer party
we dance in indigo skin,
bathe in cloth-covered strobe lights, flood
highways and there’s nowhere to put all of
this. I’m going to cry, you say to graffiti,
the moonlight mumbles something
incoherent, a single honey-soaked
wing blooms from spine.
We drive so tar and distance
fill cavity, greet curious smiles with
tongues blue and insecurities bleeding
from headlights like flash mob – loud, occupying,
unannounced. We know the future
philosophers will be rib-caged and
smoked, so we skip meals.
We had promised to stop groping for closure
in the dark, stop saying my to
whoever would listen. Time to desire shiny
objects, storefront possibilities, checklists.
For so long, our mothers were nails
hammered into obstinate cement. Iron
rusts to powder, bends under all
these wreaths. Another
box to tick. At dawn we are our
genes, scrambled and speed-walking
In open-ended circles, peaks of mountains.
Hold up your rods, demands Hell
Stride into a storm. Hope to be struck
. Do it on repeat. Let your grins
be sirens, mid-funeral like
hypothesis being tested – absurd, giggling, painfully
unapologetic. You’ll forgo your name, coat and
fruits. Who cares? You are still
floating upwards, in colour too.
The first time you saw this world, you
Bawled. The least you could do is explain
Anandita is a seventeen-year-old self-proclaimed poet and writer living and studying in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. Her work has been published by Bitter Melon Magazine, in the International Human Rights Art Festival’s Youth Anthology, and she recently placed first in a national poetry slam.
In her free time she enjoys debating with unassuming strangers on current issues and alternative rock music.