Photo taken in March, 2019, a few months after this piece was written. Photo credit: Martine

Today was a day of a purge and my target was my laptop. For years now, I have hoarded numerous documents, photographs, videos and whatnot on this piece of tech and decided not to avoid it anymore. And the result of that? This earlier version of my previous piece “Losing Rationale”, date stamped to October 20, 2018.

For those of you who have not read that piece yet, it is a dialogue between me and my depressed mind. I wrote it as a way to make sense of what had happened to me, so it was something that I polished…

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

White lilies.
White dress.
White peep-toe stilettoes, simple.
White pearly necklace.
An open casket.

White lilies.
A three-piece suit.
Leather shoes.
A black bowtie.
An open casket.

The lilies are the same kind.
The white dress is the same one, no alterations.
The stilettoes are the same ones, but a little worn out.
The necklace has garlanded that neck for years.
The new casket is mahogany and the cushions are silk.

The flowers didn’t matter. It had to be this suit, clean and pressed, as if never worn since its coming out. The leather shoes are not forgotten since it…

A dialogue between my depressed mind and me

Photo by Sharon McCutcheon on Unsplash

Come my sweet; I thought you understood
Come crawl into bed with me
Cuddle me and hold me
Let me devour you because
Who else would?

Legs made useless because of venom
A mind wasting away
Fingertips made numb
It’s been a while now since you’ve left

You walk, you talk, you listen
You think and think and think
You run from me, but I am faster than you
You wage war in your head to get rid of me
But my sweet, you know I am a part of you.

I do not know the way to find you…

A poem about addiction

Photo by Brunel Johnson on Unsplash

Day after day, they pick me up.
They use me and throw me away when they’re done.
But they keep coming back,
like a bee raping a flower in spring.
Do I cross their mind when they’re not with me? I don’t know.
I sit there, on their table, waiting.

It’s on my table, lying in wait.
It doesn’t move, it doesn’t say anything.
Without having to do anything, it controls me.
My dalliance with it is never over.
I try to pull away from it, but it reels me back in.

Patience has become a way of life for…

Kavana Desai

A writer, thinker, and procrastinator. Poetry, fiction and creative non-fiction. Not to forget: always happy to receive feedback!

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