“500 Rupees for 50”, he said grinning
looking at my saree
with a mixture of delight and surprise
I hand over the money and grab the white stuff
he’s been dangling in my face
not knowing how to use, I seek advice
his grin broadens
“will it make me forget” I ask earnestly?
he becomes animated
sharing his ride
he is waving his bones about
I am clutching the tiny cellophane bag so tightly
that my palm has turned red
I dart across the street- the man still in mid-sentence
bringing all the equipment to my room, I slowly lock my door
“cheers asshole” I say to your photograph
I’ve been seeing you in my head – alive when you’re dead
Sanity surfaces and I watch my escape circling down the commode
Angry at myself for losing control, I am writing for release
Substituting my pen for the white stuff
My ride begins
Words become my drugs.

Sashikala Premawardhane

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.

Advertisements