Originally posted on my blog https://aakritikuntal.wordpress.com/
On certain evenings, my fingers turn a milky orange. There is a color alchemy, an arousing, a war. Yellow creeks, muddy yolks, water, water, and fluoride. I am a pool, stagnant, quiet, breathing inconspicuously as the clock spins.
The Doctor knocks. He has an atmospheric beard, neutrons clinging. A catacomb of wheels, round, robust and agile. Their movements coordinating into a symphony. Chopin, I think. Or maybe it’s the blues, they make my head hum, buzz even.
I sit in one of the familiar positions, Taurus, Aquarian or Libra, among others. I have molasses for legs, brown, snatching the ions from the air. I am a charged being, an origami, a folding, an unfolding. My breasts swell, pillow-like, feathery and scattered. The wind occupies the system, cracking through the ventricular organs, breath, breath, breath.
My table is ready.Tablecloth : solid blue with white latitudes, raspberry dungeons and sunflower valleys. The items are assembled in an uneven symmetry. An orchid blooms in the middle. It has my saliva smeared, DNA gloss. The sensuous texture of my palette. My licorice, salty, caramel, rancid whims.Piled like floss. Staircases upon staircases.
My nail cutter has a squint . An oval ensemble of the entire room, of me. Light, shadow, and reflection. It likes to trim, my unevenness, my wilderness, my exaggerations. Lest I claw, lest I crave for meaning.
The center, however, is always the eye seeker. A pastel pink bowl. Crystals and lattice, fountains and varicose mountains.
The doctor sits, his eyes steel-gray. The doctor sits and just stares, STARES. My lips vacillate, squeeze, inflate, exclaim, form rings and tails. My lips move, flutter and then fall silent.The doctor just stares. He has a cunningness, an absurdity. Like staring at an immortal, dissolved, clear and apathetic in certain ways. I bend, my neck, a palpitating dragon.I bend, my green frock overlapping across skewed lines of sanity. I bend and whiff, inhale the scent of the bowl. I call it the womb. It has such a distinct smell. A smell of yearning, of ambitions, of desires. The colors flood my face, I am a prism. (Rapid, sensuous and alive)
I pick up the orchid and swallow it. Ingest my spirit, my life. It’s the necessary dosage, the doctor says. Every time I clip myself too much with the nail cutter, I drink the orchid. I swallow the life that is mine. To remember, to know, what it is to be unadulterated. To be me.
Published by Aakriti Kuntal