Weekend mornings begin funny sometimes. ☕️
Weekend mornings begin funny sometimes. ☕️
A Glass Of You
A glass of you
Just for me
Would sustain my soul
But I chase you
And I taste you
Like the traces of fragrance
That lost its way
A few faded moonbeams
Forgotten on the earth after
The break of day
Like fresh water lost in
The salt of the ocean
A thought centered by its
Own gravity, in the midst
Of perpetual motion
No, my heart
You would leave me to starve
And I happily would too
We lovers, seemingly,
Aspire to sink
And you could nourish me
If you were as real
As the bitter words I drink
Some nights we pour,
We smile, and
Some nights, we laugh
‘Because beer contains more calories than your love‘- Sumit Goreja
One day when I was fourteen, my dad came home after a long trip. He unpacked his things and went to take a shower, but burst out less than five minutes after going into the bathroom.
Someone had left a soap wrapper in the bathroom shelf.
In retrospect, it could only have been the maid. There was no reason for anyone else to take a bar of laundry soap out, she was the only one who laid hands on that thing. But she immediately denied having forgotten to throw it away. That left mom, me, and the younger two. One of us must be ruled guilty. One of us, would have to be punished.
It wasn’t mum, dad was clear on that. The main suspect was me, but I was vehemently insistent that I didn’t do it. My brother was eight, my sister six. One of us was lying. One of us simply had to be punished.
To help us confess, we weren’t given any food for three days.
It was summer vacations, we didn’t have to go to school. He told mom straight up that if she fed us in his absence, or if she snuck us food, he’d divorce her and kick her out in a blink. We couldn’t sneak any food since we couldn’t leave the house. We sat at the table at every meal, breakfast, lunch, and dinner, to watch, not to eat, till the person guilty of leaving the soap wrapper in the shelf confessed. He ate, and we watched. We watched for three days.
Then my six year old sister ‘confessed’, because she was hungry. I’d tried to make the ‘confession’ on the second day, but he didn’t buy it. I wasn’t as good a liar then, I didn’t know how to make it convincing. My sister was young enough that he didn’t know the difference.
On the third day, we were allowed food again. My father was triumphant. He’d caught the liar- “See? That’s all it took. They just needed to be taught a lesson.” We didn’t care. We were hungry.
I’m not a child anymore. None of us are. It has been almost twelve years to that day, to those days. But there are still nights when these things that happened, these half forgotten fears, they reign supreme. They come back with a ravaging force to eat away at whatever self confidence I’ve scraped for myself. They laugh at me, at my supposed happiness and my contentment and my love, and I’m that fierce, lost child again.
But I’m not lost, and I’m not a child. And I love as fiercely as I used to be just fierce, back in those days. And when they come back, they are banished into the inebriated cover of sleep. And it’s 4 am now and the last glass has sunk in properly, but I’m a happy drunk in what began as a sad night.
And that’s why I love whiskey.
On the Rocks- V
You don’t seem to love me
When our glasses are empty
And if you can’t love me, without alcohol
You don’t love me at all
I’d like to add a small note in here. Bear with me.
Oftentimes, when I write, I write from a dark place. But there are times when I can sit in the light and still write of the dark.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that just because my poems may seem like I’m in a bad place, doesn’t mean that I’m not in control of where and how I am. This particular set of poems caused a lot of confusion with an acquaintance of mine, since she assumed that I’m drinking nonstop and drinking on the job, and am even suicidal. And the fact that this blog, and my identity, must necessarily be anonymous, led her to believe that I was about to attempt suicide, and then to the other extreme- that I’m a troll. Like one of those middle aged men pretending to be teen girls or something. It got extremely accusatory on her side, and extremely confused on mine, before I could sort everything out. She still refused to believe that I wasn’t drinking while working, because of the difference in our time zones. My drinking time in the western hemisphere was her morning/ afternoon, so she assumed that I was also spending my lunch breaks at the hospital hiding and chugging from a flask, or something.
Pardon my French, y’all, but I know my shit. I know my responsibilities and I carry my ethics and my moral duties more precious than life. That applies not only to my patients, but to my friends, my acquaintances, and just about every thing and person in the universe around me. And I do get in bad places inside my head sometimes, but I defy anyone to find a moment whee I gave less than my all to someone who needed my attention, both professionally and personally. And I take it as an insult of the most personal form.
There’s probably not a soul luckier than me, to have found the most caring and loving corner of the Internet to flourish in. There are people here who’ve nurtured me, tempered me, schooled me and taught me- and loved me all the while. There have also been those who got carried away by some of my writing. With utmost humbleness, let me please remind you- poems are open to interpretation. If I’m writing of drowning myself in whiskey, I’m drinking, not actually drowning. If I’m writing of crying myself to sleep, I may be, I may be not- but that is no reason for you to hurt yourself. The Internet is a vast place. If I’m away for a day and there’s a delay in my response, it does not mean that I’m hanging from a ceiling fan somewhere. Please don’t take such drastic steps- I feel terribly and horribly guilty that I even left space for such interpretation, that caused someone pain.
I feel like an ass, pretty much.
I’m way too confused to make sense, even. So I’m winding this up here, with a bucket load of love and cuddles to all of y’all. I might be a depressed, dysfunction and drunkaholic cookie monstah, but I’m your loving cookie monstah nonetheless.
Always with love, and always with light,
Cookie ❤ ❤