When I walk through

the always open doors at work,

I take off the heaviness in my heart,

put on a smile,

some kajal, 

and lipstick, sometimes.

I cover my sorrow in laughter

and find myself living along deadlines.

When I enter the rickety doors of home,

I have to swallow the lump in my throat

be the strong, elder daughter.

Home doesn’t have space for anymore breakdowns.

But between home and work,

walking through the streets and alleys of this city,

alone,

I allow myself fifteen minutes of crumbling

before I have to gather myself again.

Finally finding freedom,

my tears trail down my face,

mix with the dust and the dirt,

without a trace. 

This is an attempt

I’ve become a clutterbug of thoughts,

unwritten.

Up here,

inside my mind, there are 

no clips or staples

no Clear Bags or files or drawers

to stack and stock

these thoughts

neatly.

Unorganised,

these thoughts

are hindrances,

making me trip into insanity.

This clutter must be cleared.

I must write these words down,

even if it will only make a mess on the page,

even if no matter how I lay them down,

they will read like they were written about you

even if I feel like I don’t know how to write anything anymore,

I need to put these thoughts down,

somewhere,

out of my system

or else, this mess of thoughts in my mind will

manifest into monsters,

that create havoc elsewhere.

This is an attempt. 

Poems by Yukta Bajracharya