Shriya PrasadTreating myself with love,
Feels like an incestuous sin,
So I light myself on fire ever so often,
Approach myself with tender nonchalance,
Drench the self in bouts of half love,
Hang thy damp mess by the moon,
As an unworthy sacrificial lay lamb,
While others celebrate the pagan festival of Lammas,
For the unity of a dismembered self,
I am yet to harvest.
They could toss me onto the fire,
Turn me in directions,
Till they could poke me with a knife,
But I promised them I was tender enough,
To no one’s long batted eyelids of belief,
I do not blame them,
I was out with lanterns and candles,
That dripped hot wax onto my skin,
Mimicking a wounded cheetah with vermillion marks,
In brown and black,
Of red and blood,
If I were ever celebrating,
I might as well toss myself onto a grill,
Toss left and right,
Till I could find a comfortable position,
To fall asleep in,
Ask for a pall that doesn’t leave my feet cold.
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పెద్దన్న
రాధిక మంగిపూడి
ఓల్గా
కె. శ్రీనివాస్
హరివెంకట రమణ
నందు కుషినేర్ల
వనజ తాతినేని
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