"Houses Under Renovation" is a pessimistic, non-linear narrative poem that portrays an unnamed protagonist's battle with a terminal illness until they succumb to their inevitable death. Parted into five chapters, the poem is a compilation of the narrator’s memories and insights during the time of their antemortem depression. The Collection addresses a plethora of social issues, from classism and racism to the prioritization of capitalistic values in the healthcare system. In addition, "Houses Under Renovation" explores the topics of careless mistreatment of mental health patients, the subsequent effect of depression on romantic relationships affected, and the communication deficit plaguing contemporary society. Narrated with a debilitated tone, the poem captures the collapse of society as we know it due to the forces of modern alienation. I. white dog when misfortune struck, we were alone within four walls with two pairs of eyes, two pairs of hands, and grey was the colour of love when the downpour flooded in, it first took the horses, then housewives, then the radio, at last, it took the americans the streetlights came crashing into their respective narrow streets to make little fireworks on the brim of the night hours when we were all alone with one cat, one dog, and an old hag, you crouch down quietly, and pet the ghastly white dog you seal your eyes from the smitten glare, and let the nothing remain i could see from your eyes that love takes the colour grey when the lover is on their way all life was frothing at the mouth at the hollow bones we feed on, the earthquakes we cause, and the livings we make off of the hollow bones we feed on and the earthquakes we cause and the livings we make it must suck to know that we have to die someday II. unhealthy i remember of a time when our bones were still pulpy and the world was too small that a sore throat was not only a sore throat and a tumour was not only a tumour our collect pain was the matter of the state and theirs was ours that’s what we were told, just so that we could remain, patients overtrusting, patients undertrusting, lovers overbearing, and lovers underbearing, but when duty struck, we fought back. and we fought alone. i remember time out of time, young men and women standing in lines diplomas askew in their hands, raiding the east like disciples out of line young men and women repeating “first, do no harm” young men and women doing harm, clean out of line of experience, of the knowledge they pledged to seek but what is the significance of a title doctorate, when human lives cost thousands of fines, what is our reason to remain honest, when honesty pays none what maims us if we choose to remain, doctors underestimating, doctors overestimating, liars bystanding, what a shame to see them withstanding the truth is that money only mattered when a life was lived unlived or a heart ceased to decease the truth is that when money struck they struck back. but it wasn't nearly enough. so they remained, doctors overdiagnosing, doctors underdiagnosing, doctors overmedicating and doctors undermedicating and when they talk, they’ll tell you that we chose to remain, a nation unhealthy III. the waiting room i am waiting in the line to the american office where the american man will question my whereabouts and take my shoelaces i am with families in litters of children wearing yankee clothing feeding on the yankee candy answering the officer’s questions in the white man's tongue to prove how white they can be inside i saw a hound and a sharp tooth man on a leash threatening to take my unborn baby’s shoelaces god has forsaken the hounds that put us in the waiting room i am sentencing myself fifty years looking into the eyes of those with fifty years spent in the waiting room IV. grey when misfortune struck, you spent hours staring at the same piece of living that you judged to hell and back and crossed it out of your life i just can't help but watch the rain flood into our walls by your side where the colour of love will always remain grey. V. the end - houses under renovation it’s been a while, and they’re putting these houses under renovation. the houses are breaking down into shreds of dust and concrete, the air smells of paint thinner, and the eagle-eyed doorman eyes the construction area like a mighty shipman past daylight. the cars that pass by make these homely noises that remind me of the MRI machine that i sat in for 40 minutes when i fell that one time. an MRI machine is like your own spaceship, it makes noises that you don’t hear within daylight. the dog is barking at 5AM. i cross to the other side.

https://www.instagram.com/immywrites_/ When I was a child, I saw God I saw Him, but it wasn't through my eyes I heard Him. but His voice never entered my ears I touched Him but never by my skin I was forlorn, but I always felt Him beside me Though He never left my heart I make Him roam into my mind Though He's not just a thought He's mightier than everything, yet He lives in my heart He's not in time, but I see Him timely Though He's angry with me but He's the best thing that's ever happened to me I don't love Him the way He does and I curse myself for that I pray that He will help me with it and Forgive my miss conduct in our friendship I have lost Him, and I beg Him to come back

My collection encourages those to love the pain endured by heartbreak and explores the journey from a personal perspective/ The night you left I remember the night it happened I don't even think you realized I remember the banging of a shelf The walls were like paper. I remember the smashing of your blackberry The letters were faded. I remember the screaming I remember shoving on my tiny wedges at midnight Walking up that hill I walk up everyday I don't hold the railing anymore. I remember an empty flat The kitchen barren apart from tiger juice and cherry Bakewell's I don't eat those anymore. I remember curling up, frightened And as 6 year old me lied in that bed with my lamb blanket Wrapped around me, teary eyed, I knew my life would never be the same. Pink wedges The following months after that night were hell You'd bang on my mothers front door begging for forgiveness I'd slip my wedges on holding my mothers hand As she dragged me and my sister to the local Nisa You'd honk in your car sticking up your middle finger 'd weep No one would listen I'd sulk on the way home the sugar melting off my jelly tots I'd go to bed, eyes sore Lump in my throat And you'd go to work After you left I struggled to cope with you leaving I'd grown silent, weary I learned to stay out of my mother's way One night she'd ask me to come downstairs I'd stubbed my toe on the way down and blew my cheeks out like a puffer fish I couldn't cry. She laid there in her velvet tracksuit and asked me to sit on her lap She phoned you and told me not to bottle it all up did The tv glared as I spoke, lies dripping from my mouth Later you banged on the door I lay in my bed silently waiting for the war But then you knocked. A mamma mia CD was placed on my bed I watched it on repeat Eyes drooping closed cautiously. Why weren't my tears wiped? School wasn't much better back then I remember running around the playground alone Evervone had someone. Except me. I used to speak to the care taker I'd stand next to him at break eating my raisins When it rained I'd always ask him why it didn't sting my eyes He'd say it's because it's water There wasn't much to say to him But he was someone. Ring around the Rosie I had two friends once at your old flat. One much younger than me, an African boy Another much older, her name was Charlotte I believe Them and my sister and I would have picnics on the weekend There wasn't much food but we'd sit on the shared garden Eating different flavors of custard creams The little boy would bring chocolate dippers Charlotte ham sandwiches Those were the times I didn't feel so lonely. Loving you Time I miss the days we used to dream The days when the future was what's and if's I miss when the week-long bloom of tulips seemed like forever When the difference between summer and winter felt like different vears I miss the then. You My heart throbs with the familiar ache Staring into the distance thinking about the coming pain And then it comes A waft of blue and white dictates my eyes Guarded by the door it looks at me A tear brims in the corner of a pupil Threatening to fall Ruining it all The stern look and unwavering frown Unwillingly mellows my soul Compulsively taking it all Later I take a turn down the path of hope I see it again This time stalking towards me For a second my lids are flowing with passion But that is soaked up when you look through me You know me Don't you? That glimmer of passion disappears Instead replaced by an unfulfilled empty smile Given to the kind gentle man that passes Milking me into a puddle of regret The solemn feeling of being alone That everybody fawns over Disappears when the mouth goes dry And eventually loneliness captures you and i But to me Loneliness and the sun create an ethereal eclipse Now the only thing we fawn over is the sun spilling in Summer kisses I dream of a valley Where the soft summer wind plays with our wisps of hair The water trickling under the blazing heat Radiating onto our browning backs Whilst our smiles never crack Our grins dominate the evergreen trees And all the flowers that beam Budding pure excellence Felling our dreams The laps of lush green grass wrap around us Sweaty sunglasses guide our eyes Meanwhile the soft lull of our favourite band soothes our ears Sending our hearts into a slow steady rhythm Drying our tears and all the memories with them But I'll keep dreaming of those lazy sunny days Melted ice cream's dribbling down our deliciously red blistering cheeks And I'll soon learn to block out their screams Regrettably, with love In a world where hope seems scarce, I promise to thread the few and fine dustings of my love in your palms, When trust is greedy and selfish, I promise my hands are safe for your heart to melt in, If loneliness threatens to consume you, I promise to fill the hollow of your core with the scraps of my soul. In a world that tries to batter your entity, I promise to give you my all: now, forever and always. But I don't think I could tell you that, Not even if I tried. Peace Id never dared to dream about love But something about the mellow of his soul The chips of jade in his eyes It beaconed something within me Whether it was the strips of sun in his hair The hoarse of his voice Or his callous heart begging to be softened It stirred hope in the cracks of my soul It sewed light into the corners of my head, heart and being. You did. After you What do I do? The feathered laces of my Converse were too much for you. The bleach stain on my bed sheet chased you away The frizz of my hair sliced through your hand, They were agape for more. The baring of my teeth was oxymoronic to you How can someone so sad be happy? I turn back to my sadness, my longing And you learned to be loud in the stillness The darkest side of you You told me I was like breathing in carbon But I always viewed you as the silt that lines The bottom of the sea. The fine particles of it, some from centuries ago Rub on the bellies of mackerels as they glide Through the harbour, from above looking like chips of silver rolling across the banking Bellies grazing the salt trodden water Although the silt is sunken beneath the sea We mackerel soar upwards lying our eggs You silt hide them for us unwillinglv We leave, pacing down the harbour in streaks Leaving you with our burden But after all; I'm like breathing in carbon. Nomads land The silence is battering sometimes It makes me feel dirty I try and trap myself in my mind for protection But it's still there It may stop for a second as you craft your own world It may seem wavering when you try and leave But as soon as you close your eyes And the pale glint of the moon bores through your soul The drop in your chest can't be ignored The sweat on your palms that feels like blood peeking with the abundance of no one The pounding of you heart you wish would stop But that would mean you'd die That would mean leaving a world that gave you nothing but gaping wounds and rigid frowns And you start to wonder if that's such a bad thing anymore It doesn't seem so scary when you're alone. Forbidden fruit Girls like me don't curl up into a ball in the darkness of their bedroom begging a god to take them away, using a knife as a shrine, no. girls like me laugh as though freedom wraps around them in a sickening abundance. Girls like me don't try to drown themselves in bathtubs or hold their breath until the beating of their heart slows, no. girls like me discuss latest makeup products with their friends and gallivant through the halls as though they own them Girls like me don't write their own eulogies and memoirs to mourn not the life they have, but the life they wished they had the chance to live, no girls like me beg for the day to etch on longer, rejoicing in the life they have, the life they are so blessed to live Girls like me don't cry in school cubicles or feel so depressed the familiarity of it becomes wallowing to them, something they can't live without, no. girls like me look forward to cozy weekends in bed, girls like me ignore how littered their hearts have become Girls like me will never be helped because we're so unbelievably happy girls like me never need help. Drown Sometimes I feel as though I'm in an ocean. No bubbles or boats Everything is still. The water corrodes my head with a million thoughts my loneliness steals my life jacket As I bob my sullen head above the surface I hate the stillness. Saturday rituals I wake up heart beating like a chorus Back aching from the sofa I slept on My belly feels like hot dripping tar Waiting to harden as the postman comes He knocks twice as I rub the sandman's presence from my eyes and acknowledge him Next, my nose melts at the smell of crackling bacon, ears rising at the pads of paw steps The great mound of fluff trods towards me, Metallic saliva absolving me of all sadness Until I hear footsteps thud downstairs and suddenly the bacon smells like a death wish Suddenly the postman becomes a saviour, a getaway from the thud of his feet All hell breaks lose: the boom of his voice the callous of his tongue the stench of his breath Now the bacon smells like my flesh and I don't know what to do The postman waves goodbye, my chance of escape narrows and Saturday traps me Lady of sorrows She tried to lie in the silence Tried to marvel in its' supposed beauty The candid moments it brought to others But it frightened her. Gave her time to bask in the lonely, empty void that surrounded her Gave her time to scratch her skin raw in need for someone Anyone. As tears spilt down the familiar route of her rosy cheeks Then trickled across her stinging lip As she tasted the salty liquid of her displeasure Allowing it to travel down her burning throat Pleading for someone to drag her out of this gnawing silence Anyone. But no one ever came to Dolores

I met her during an overwhelming winter The gloom of Demeter exhibited With frigid frosted ground And unsparing winter wind Yet her eyes gleaming and mellow Causing my admiration to spurt out And when she gabbed of white butterflies Flapping superimposed on each other On the foot of maple trees On the birth of spring I secretly slipped my roots into her flesh I grabbed her heart to compensate for my beating I felt her pulse in my veins And her heart throbbing in my chest And tar pumped into my organs And my inside icy and wilting That is when I ran away Disproving her existence in my head But my roots Still dunked deep into her

This poem is a response to Ocean Vuong's Telemachus & there my father stayed out of reach for a decade, unlike Little Dog, I didn't have the chance to sink deeper with him, for I am all ready to drown and be still: the way century-past forgotten rocks dwell with the forthcoming waves. for whatever water he may be in rafting alone I might not be able to come aboard nothing but paper receipts every month; it's the closest, solely, I was ever to be with him. and I have no other face to wear even of my mother's I can't and will not for there is but antipodal faces ready not to be attached for only maternal [could be paternal] dolorous things happen. I've become a Kami, pa, folded, crafted, ready to float, in hopes of being harbored near him, near where the after-wet storm could be released not forcefully but gracefully as sliding honeysuckle- & I am ready to be tugged Out of the waters, to be tended.

Does death scare you? No. Life scares me. This constant fear of living but not loving, loving but not being loved, being loved but not accepting the reality, accepting the reality, but it hurts. Families, friends, colleagues, teachers - all these relationships generated by the social construct can't protect us from being alone, dying alone, or vanishing away from memories. Do I wish to be remembered after I am gone? Would it even matter? Or am I too scared to walk out of this mechanism of fear instilled in me? Life is too short? No, I wish it was shorter. Short enough to skip these thoughts, short enough to forgive others, short enough to step outside and breathe fresh air, short enough to genuinely live and love. While I sit on my balcony Gazing at these people- Living another solid sunset As I lose my glamour behind. These little souls full of life Burning with zeal infinite- Willingness to heal And hurt at the same time; The old ladies in their balconies Mulling over the sky- Cursing their present or reminiscing past... Or maybe they are happy with who they are; I see these cars, bikes, and rickshaws And random passer-bys. I keep looking, Looking and looking Until the sun finally says goodbye. The home's been blank, Like sheets of paper, these past few days. So again, I choose to sit on the balcony To learn what the world does to survive. Watching these people day by day, Watching these lunars go by, As my body stops growing But not growing old... My home - still blank, So I can't help but ask myself Who would sit at my grave? Could I ask these birds To keep me company, And sing when I feel down? Will these children spare some time To share their jokes with me? Will these women leave their homes And share their stories When I want to sleep but am lying awake? A sudden relief hit me as I realized I won't have a grave. I would simply be washed away into infinity And beyond the reach of humans Just like my thoughts As I watch the sunset.

Society’s favorite day is the hardest. Saturday’s endless miles. Saturday socials. Saturday shifts at the booth of spoonfed friendship and stagnant smiles. Characterized by rest rest rest, Saturdays stress my mind, body, heart-- until I collapse, wallowing in the guilts of extroversion, delving into the lonely comfort of a pillow. Saturdays continue as I stumble in the bliss of routine, my Wednesday and Thursday highs tumbling down the calendar’s hill. I can’t compete in the popularity ploys of Saturday’s raceway. My comforts cling to a Tuesday afternoon, covered in dread and Saturday sorrow.

The piece talks more about the rise than the fall. It is me owning my voice—every woman's voice. We are here to be heard. We are here to be listened to. https://www.instagram.com/smitartt There's this old tradition in my house where, when we sit down for dinner, the noise of the grief-stricken creaking chairs overpowers the sound of our heartbeats. Maa cooks curd rice and French beans for dinner with her hands engraved with Baba's violent love- it's her anniversary, and she's wearing her favorite golden-yellow kanjivaram saree as she serves me apple custard with a melancholic smile, dying to yell till her lungs give out, "I am hurting- I am hurting- I am hurting; please save me, my child." A cavity begins to form in my molars; I hear a bone inside me break; my shoulder blades mourn my futile existence. Baba stays up late watching BBC news and, on most nights, drinking cheap alcohol and smoking in other women's silhouettes at bars. When I tell Maa he is not in love with her, she frowns as if it is a God-given lineage—broken marriage imprinted on her scalp like desperate teen tattoos. She sends me to sleep while decorating her dead dreams on Nani's unfinished woolen shawl. Didi is an audience who has been visiting empty stadiums for years now; hoping for a less painful defeat; helping Maa wipe out her salty tears before they mix up with the dough, and I, a rebel with a taped mouth and rope-tied hands, wanting to scream into the monotonous sky and make stars go to war for my dying mother. I want to untangle every constellation and send them on a mission to shut patriarchy, make it bleed till it sobs out humanity and pukes chauvinism out of its trachea. So when an Indian woman goes into media to let the world know how fucking doomed she is, and people shame her for projecting her voice, for wanting not just to be heard but listened to, I want to say—s c r e w y o u society for imposing loveless marriage down naive women's throats; romanticizing the guillotine-like fancy French art that needs to be gulped down in order to adapt to modern culture. When we say we have been hurting, what we need is your hand reaching out to uplift us. We need you to intertwine your heartstrings with ours until empowerment becomes a new language and a female infant learns it like the back of her tiny, chunky hands while plaiting her Barbie's hair with fresh blood, reeking of subsumed toxic masculinity we can stand and trip-walk ourselves. Just don't tear the bandaids from our scraped knees. Our wounds are our recovery stripes—our identity. Don't shush us and tell us that womanhood is a generational curse; that womanhood disgusts you. Because we know you are terrified of us— that we might nail our bindis on the parched walls; leave our bloody footprints on costly maple floors; carve revolutions in slum streets with our burnt hands; strangle prejudices with our kanjivaram sarees; undrape them to make your deathbed look aesthetic and watch you bleed in crimson red with Maa Kali's laughter. We know that the only reason you buy a ticket for our dying exhibition is because you don't want us to die- you want us to suffer and womb. Your ugly stereotypes and rotten misogyny, we know that when you call us weak, what you mean is that our ribcage houses your strength, and you're afraid of your dead life in us.