I wake,
but do not rise.
Something ancient
sits on my chest
not grief,
not memory,
but a presence with breath
and no name.
The room folds inward.
My limbs are mausoleums.
Even my scream
is a closed door.
The walls melt into fur.
A horse with eyes like
unanswered prayers
leans from the dark,
snorts doubt
into my ribcage.
I am awake.
I am not awake.
Something watches.
Something waits.
My nightgown clings
like a second skin
I didn’t ask for.
My body,
a cathedral locked from the inside.
My pulse,
a choir of flies.
In this moment,
I am canvas.
I am symbol.
I am girl-as-haunting.
Is this what they meant
by hysteria?
By possession?
By she dreamed too much,
and dared too loudly?
I do not fear death.
I fear
being looked at
by something that knows
I cannot move.
The beast shifts.
An incubus?
A ghoul? A phantom?
Its breath recedes.
The veil lifts.
I rise.
I pretend
to be awake.
I drink water.
I do not speak of it.
Sleep will return.
So will the thing.
We are lovers now
bound by the shape
my silence makes.
***
Madras Courier originally ran as a broadsheet with a poetry section. It was a time when readers felt comfortable sharing glimpses of their lives through verse. If you have a poem you’d like to submit, do email us at [email protected].
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