Megha Mittal
Writer, Illustrator, Human
Graphic Poetry
Apartment Complex
We are allowed to walk outside. Twice a day. After lunch. After dinner. After lunch. After dinner. I used to go. Me and Sharpie. Talk about life. Not the past. Never the past. The future sometimes. When it was sunny. And then he left. He was too large for the place. Maybe they took him away. At night. And then in the morning, there was another, dumber than anything I have seen before--he thinks this is life. I want to murder him sometimes, punch out his stupid smile which never fades from his face, like an abomination --Help! Help ! Help me! No one will come you fool. When does this end!? Never! Help! Help ! Help me! Help! Help ! Help me! I haven't heard anyone yell in so long such symphony I used to, at midnight, hunch down like a wolf and howl, howl howwl! I don't remember why I stopped-- I think they asked me to. It’s not nice to disturb others who don’t want to remember. Sharpie told me what roses used to smell like and of the sound of rain. He saw everything and never forgot. That's why they took him. And now, come here, come here, I'll tell you something, you look trustworthy, heck if you aren't, Listen! I have been digging--it will take years but this time I'll not forget, I promise I'll keep going. Only I won't know when to stop-- what does it look like? that thing they talk about; there are people outside, I can smell them, like mud on rain or that one time when- I promise, I promise It’s lunch time, Lunch time, lunch time. Who are you? I didn’t ask you to come! go away ! It's luncH timE Look Pleased.
You try. I know you do. My darling, my precious -- you are not a pig like all of them Others. You listen, and feel, and love fully with your one heart. You reflect and you be. You have transcended dirty mortality. You are here in this moment, Here Now with me. Stay, won't you -- don't check your phone! you asshole you can't even stay still for one fucking minute you parasite - always thinking of more more more, me me, me. I see you - pretending to be nice while thinking how you are better than them Others. You are no fucking God a wart, a midget on my skin. Get off and rot. Now isn't for you. You never were , you never will be.
Now
It is war. Of a silent kind. Can't you hear the terrible shrieks of this wild winter wind? I should have kissed you--that day when nothing else had existed for a moment. Maybe I'll be dead the next time we meet. Buried deep under desire, responsibility, guilt– you told me the difference between them once but I wasn't listening. It would be better if fire rained from the sky and we had blood on our hands--at least we would know the reason for all this fear, the dread that grips the heart and never let's go I have a lovely house (so they tell me) and everything money can buy but someone, In a dark alley somewhere bought me I don't know who, or for how much. And now I must wait for orders; I wish sharpnel would burst through the air so I could tell myself why I never loved my mother enough, or let my father die because I was in a foxhole, maimed and bleeding. Because it is war. Remember me, won't you. There are many others like me down here, crouching , breathing fear some don't sleep at all--I asked them why once they gripped me and murmured frantically of a large man who will come and take away your everything what is everything? I meant to ask Plant some flowers in my name–lavenders. When they tell me it’s night, I press your lips to my chest and fall into dreams of death.
Lavenders
Do you know why the birds start yelling at dusk why the light is heavenly for just a few moments before the sky starts to pale like a corpse Notice the trees, they'll tell you some stand hauntingly still unmoved by a masquerading wind They'll tell you it's coming and you must obey strip off all joy and slip into fear, this forlorn night is biting and real who knows of light and where it goes time is fickle, it may just end forgo life now, let darkness descend.
Night
I am scared of this love
What are you scared of? Tell me darling. Are you scared of my tender fingers, that they might squeeze yours too tight? or my yearning eyes, for they might singe your lips, my sagging sighs shall drink in all of this lovely air that you choke on. Tell me! what is it!? Is it the insolent warmth of my lungs or the vulgar longing in my words, the foolish fervor maybe that boils my blood each time you refuse me. You are right my love I am a beast and on your fear shall I feast with tender claws and yearning teeth, I shall rip you open, devour your soul then spit you out in the bitter cold to see if Fear is left in you anymore.
Why can't I eat An candle? An candle--I felt like calling it An; It likes it that way. Yes it told me. When I was considering eating it. I think I am in love with it the an candle What do I know what love is? And you know? You, who is so terrified of waking in the middle of the night that you would slap yourself back to sleep; so terrified of being improper that you'd rather not live. Stay awake I say, shout into the hollow night; light a candle and watch ants in the kitchen devouring honey or poop at 3 am, with the door open like a savage! No! Drink some water and go back Back to sleep! What if I can't Then try; keep trying.
Savages
Are there blue doors in heaven. I had a dream you lying on my chest blue doors, no ceilings your silver streaked hair growing into a bright sky I don't love spoons. I know— but how would you eat without them? this is where you lift up and float away like a sulking skyscraper because it had been raining for years and I was wet under my skin like mud that smells like beginning only I don't smell anything but your lavender fingers on my neck, moving slowly I do love them. I know— but how would I eat without you searching my skull, twisted in my hair digging earth atop my sinking skin no doors, pink ceilings. hurry, its still beginning. Do oranges explode when
Gold Windows
Inquiries
Commonwealth of Selves
view project
On identity
I am an addict and you are too drunk on fear to see– it is not me who enslaves you. I am a pauper and you are too burdened by greed. I growl and you sneer back; my skin burns and yours peels away in the smoke that passes off as air. The world may not be real. The world may not be real, but longing won’t let me leave. The world may not be real. I know nothing when I am awful, pathetic, ugly and alone. I bang the iron bars but noone opens the door. Noone opens the door, noone opens the door– through long dark nights and darker darker days. I don’t know what I did; it wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t–maybe it was I. I, I and you. I cannot escape and you must not leave. I cannot escape and you want to breathe. Let’s stop attacking each other. Let’s stop please– for the sake of the daffodils and the trees. For the sake of evenings and breeze, for.
On Death
Death is coming Death is coming to fuck me And I must wait Because when the cold steel drops Down on the chickens juicy neck Fear bleeds from its eyes Its whole being trembles At the crafty shadow of death It pisses out its own guts and blood A last sorry offering To the all mighty, the marauder of all But there is no redemption now Too late, too late master, says time It rattles, twitches, and wails I look straight Into its eyes, bleeding For revenge–like I killed it I killed it I killed it I
Written work
Gift Shop is a curated collection of poems gathered over the course of a few years. Some of these have been published previously in online literary journals like G5A Imprint and Nether Quarterly.
The collection’s prevailing themes embrace grief, longing, and a relentless pursuit to find meaning in a world that is as perplexing as it is enchanting. The author believes that poetry should not be treated as a cryptic puzzle to be solved, but rather embraced like the stories of an old friend—filled with the warmth of nostalgia and a shared understanding (or a shared confusion) of the world. Through this collection, she aspires to offer readers a sense of intimacy and togetherness amidst the ruthlessness and absurdity that surrounds us.
Bottled up
Stage play - December 2023
A dystopian society which has resorted to taking pills in order to feel emotions
Write to me
You can connect to me at megha.mittal92@live.com.
I am moody and might not respond though.
