Seven o clock, morning.
You are a different person
Made of newspaper, underwear
And breakfast left-overs.
Your bad breath tells us
That day has begun.

Seven o’clock, evening.
You are a different person
Made of bones and bottles
Of stale beer and the static
Of television. You stumble
In dreams you can never
Wake up from.

The world is made of
Broken glass and expletives.
Violence is the string
That ties us together,
Two puppets dangling
By the fingers of a mad

You take the years from her life
To drink it in one gulp.
You suck her dry
To drown in your wine-glass
Along with your name,
Someone she once knew and a child,
Who tells Mother,
“We are barren shells,
That the tide will not take away.”

We sleep with our eyes open
In the room next to the one
Where the corpse slumbers,
The remnant of some black magic,
So that everyday
A skeleton, and not Daddy
Rises after me.

I shall still search in the ash
For things I’ll never find.


Archita is a freelance writer,artist and designer based in Calcutta,India. More of Archita's writing can be found at