I hate reciting my poetry,
Because I feel somewhere speech mars the beauty of a word read in ink;
Because somewhere my voice is not delicate enough where it needs to be
Because speaking doesn’t even give me enough time to think.
I think recitation is for extravagant spendthrifts,
Not a frugal like me who can’t afford the air to carry away my words-
My words, my words that contain my heart and soul
As they are born every instant in my mind
My words are fossils of dead memories
that exist even when the person who gave birth to them left.

I hate reciting my poetry, because
My words take a different escape route than yours:
After being manufactured up there they only approach my lips hesitantly ;
Sometimes almost about to pour out like the autumn leaves falling off trees
But each time, rejected desperately
They sit like dead bodies on the tip of my tongue, denied the luxury of having a gravestone
They eventually end up dripping,
down my fingertips
& into my phone.

Published by Priya Ratti