It’s 7 am.
And I wake up in a warm bed
too large for a single person
to neighborhood noises –
clattering vessels and conversation muted
by walls and windows.
My head pounds to the beat
of a sprightly mixer making chutney.
My eyes shut tight against light
wish for a gun that would
shoot the migraine away.

I am pregnant.
My stomach swells
with your good intentions
and your kindness
that refuse to be born.
My pregnancy lasts
a lifetime of wanting,
desiring decency.
My pregnancy refuses
to birth
our conventional desires
and so shames only me.

It’s 7 am.
In the morning
Words have more clarity.
Even those that lack depth.
Worlds have hope everywhere.
Today is a new day.
But where I live
with my swollen stomach
my head pulsing failure and loss
morning brings only sickness.
And a heart heavier than
The light of a piercing sun.


About Bhumika's Boudoir

I love to laugh, and end up being a part of high drama and stormy emotion even when I don't pursue it. Being creative, and communicating with people get me going. I enjoy all the good things in life especially those that are slightly risque, and apologise little, if ever, for all that I do. Literature is a passion and so is music.
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2 Responses to Morning 

  1. Ch4 says:

    This one is quite poignant.


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