Stories of Withdrawal

A Poem (Prompt — Exodus)

I walk out of life as an unfulfilled writer

The stories — the ones read aren’t in my voice; my fingerprints live mangled — on the imagery told

When I talk about the Garden of Vaginas When I talk about his first erection as a child I am mostly talking about my sexuality that I met rather late and lost quite early__

All my stories about India I am afraid are not out of love for the land I speak of It’s my own ruin and glory told through monuments — and wet cakes of red soil

In those essays on Edith Through her stone body, /washed in fungal green water/ I talk about my only unborn child — who was never conceived — who will never be conceived either

The story of not ‘making it’ as a writer is so much more — enigmatic — than the one where I make it

The latent dream where I am denied, makes for better — life after death

I am exhausting words on you to close my eyes, To reach that final white rock without any poetry inscribed on it

With words I become a yogi If there is any god in chaos that god paces inside me forcefully — high on anxiety

The snake is me, as much as I am the snake — My ankles aren’t planted at all It’s the laziness to get off that brick and close one blue door behind

I have (not) been chased by him as I have (never) run naked. I have been chased by my desire to be clothed and my aversion towards exposing my severely ill and knotted belly

Writing is withdrawal from a real story to its reflection on blank screens moving under agitated thumbs — smelling of days cut open — of fading stench left behind as a writer — unknown

~

In response to Dead Poet’s Live prompt — Exodus by David S.