To Win Back The Moon

By Shruti Mehta

May pulled the rug underneath

my feet, and I prayed for company,

watching my knees

make friends with the concrete,

the streets wailing in crimson defeat

June, for once will you please hold me?

I promise I’ll remember your days forever

and If you give me your arms

I promise to preserve your warmth,

use it to make it till the end of the year,

but she’s as cold as she’s always been

she betrays me everytime

the magnificent trees shake their

fresh leaves in disapproval

which are coloured by the reflection of my envy,

and the ones which grace the ground

carried the reminiscence of their old

amber efforts of fixing me, before being

crushed by my iron clad shoes

I need to tread cautiously

so I look for the sun, hoping to

feel her rays dance on my skin

turn my black to golden

but she hides behind dreary covers

worried I’ll corrupt her Midas touch,

and ruthlessly signals her soldiers

to drench me with their abrasive acid

and the moon? When she saw me, with

the kind of desperation that comes

only for a hard drug or a tight hug,

eyeing her obsidian ocean

where she sleeps snug,

she gathered all her maternal instinct

and pulled back her stars

her luminous gaze

burnt me with rage

that the ache in me reminded me I deserve

now all I can do is take embrace

in the cold callous midnight air

of my life

that has been more faithful to me

than welcoming.

I’ve faded out of every room

I’ve stepped in, and I’m losing time

by the hours now. The useless

watch will glare at me till I break it

naturally I’m left with a desire

to suck the entirety of myself inside

because this is what happens

when you learn yourself through

unfinished poems and fractured proses

all the science points to petrichor

so why does it smell smoke and tar?

all the signs point to a happy life

but the fruit rots inside

and if you’re close enough

you’ll notice the smell everytime I exhale

I’m start to realise there’s no pride

in being a perfect science experiment

or a useless lesson

but its just July and it’s never too late

the stubborn stars don’t co-operate,

making it hard to navigate

but I still have Plath to pave my path

and Bowie to set me free

because their works live for eternity

I will create my own fire

I will stitch my own bandages

I will breathe air that is wholly mine

and be my own divine,

holy spirit, temple and priest

and I will win back the moon at least.

By Shruti Mehta