you forgot

Jayati Tripathi, India

[the rain is far too harsh on the damp sidewalk. it rumbles under the frenzy of hurried footfalls and untied shoelaces. umbrellas push past each other, a kick here a slight shove there. a dingy mass of scraping grey. there is an abundance of sighs, exasperation, the rolling of the eyes]

it is the monotony that drags you down
not the loneliness or the captivity.
it weighs upon your shoulders, a little heavier each day
till you make the cracks in your bones a hiding spot
and it doesn’t even strike you-

i. your cactus died. they say cacti are strong, strong plants. they don’t need to be watered every day and they prick you if you try to get to know them too well. that’s why you bought a cactus. but it shriveled up into a mush of soil and thorns. too much rainwater? or maybe it was the cat next door that despises you. you remind me of a cactus.

ii. you have not spoken to your parents since late in June. it is the second of September today. your mother sends you pictures of the sky when she goes for a walk. they’re shaky and out of focus, but you can make out the puffy white clouds and pale morning sky. why don’t you reply to her? your father sends you mug recipes every weekend. he waits for you to try them out and tell him how it tasted. why do you only ever eat instant noodles?

iii. your friend moved out. you rented this apartment together, five years ago, right after college ended. the two of you brought in suitcases brimming with dreams; you would finally be roommates. you painted the walls mint green and got obnoxiously colourful plush pillows. she took the pillows and left last month. said something about independence and shifting in with some friends from work. why didn’t you keep the pillows? you could have asked her to stay.

iv. you stopped writing. the pages of your journals are yellowing away. i saw you pick up a scrap of paper from under the bed yesterday. it was the poem you wrote for your sister on her birthday. you used it to wipe off the ketchup from the bedside table and threw it towards the dustbin. it didn’t even land inside. it's still sitting on the floor. pick that up, will you?

v. you have stopped dreaming. you go to bed at 01:32 with the imprint of your blazing laptop screen scurrying under your eyelids. you fall asleep by 02:15 and the blackness caresses your body. you wake up at 08:00 and try to remember what you dreamt of. you cannot. the next day you do not try to remember. you forgot how to dream.

vi. you have changed. who are you now?

Jayati is a second-year college student pursuing a degree in Liberal Arts, in India. She enjoys writing free verse poetry and has recently tried to expand her range by delving into narrative poetry and prose. Her work has been published by LiveWire.in and she was the Second Runner-Up in the Youth Poetry Battles Competition. She enjoys curating oddly specific Spotify playlists, exploring cities, spending far too much time on Goodreads, and watching an abundance of vine compilations on YouTube.