lives in me, like a tenant. my body, her home. through the window of eyes she sees rain, tonight. she decides to lie on the bed. lazily, she has draped a sheet and is reading quietly while thinking. she has stayed in her home, me. pain has caressed her home, me. the monthly rent of ache delivered to me, on time. only the mode varies: a break in the leg, or a twitch in the heart, cheque or cash, as they say. she lives in her home, quietly, in me.
healing is cleaning the blood-stains after a grotesque war, where you have lost everything. it is seeing your own guts on an operation table and being the doctor, who operates to sew it back. like renovating a house, it is fixing the pipes of the heart, tapping the flow of love, of ceiling the words that fly, of door-ing the tears that flow, of viewing the world through a window, in parts. healing, is seeing yourself crack, burst, burn like a firework on a Diwali evening and sing about the light that you are. it is like a poem that you write, and the words pause the readers only to make you forget what you feel, by the little compliments. healing, after all, is about mending a heart which breaks, mostly always, and the crack stays, for ever and ever.
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