All my limbs reek of the odour of every

Story my pen leaks out, some that make it

On the paper, some that turn into blotches

Of a network of black and blue, and some

That remain stuck inside the crumpled web

Of nerves connected to the trickling pen that

My hand holds, but my brain commands, and

Yet my hands reek today of the stories they

Have helped take shape, and the stories that

Desperately tried but failed to get intimate with

Them in a way that only stories could, and yet

They did, if not as words, then as remnants of

Them, enveloping my hands in their dying stench,

Trying to seep into my skin and bleed onto

Papers as bloody words that don't just tell a story,

But shout it in a voice course and rough, and my

Limbs reek today of the odours of these stories

More than of those already written, because the

Fatal need that they possess of being expressed

As words or blood won't let go of my veins in

Which they seek to flow like blood, and as they die,

Leave their corpses within my very skin, so that

I never forget that they once existed somewhere

Within me and have now died somewhere within me.

Published by Mahima Kapoor