Letters to my mother.

i.

On days

When it is stormy

On the inside of my skin,

And

I can hear

The echoes of my heart

Breaking

Inside my ribcage,

You gently pick up

The pieces

Of my broken dreams

Where they have fallen

On the floor

From the ends

Of my fingertips,

And braid them

Into my hair.

–

ii.

Violets bloom

Out of the soft kiss

You plant

On my forehead,

Spreading the fragrance

Of happiness

All along the marrow

Of my bones.

I have painted my hands

With different shades

Of love,

But, mother,

You will always remain

My favourite shade.

–

iii.

My little princess,

You always used to tell me.

There is a fire

Inside you

That originates from

The pit of your belly,

And snakes its way up

To your heart.

Never let that fire die.

Some people are

Too blinded

By the intensity

With which your skin

Glows.

–

Krasivaya (Russian): Beautiful, but with strength

–

iv.

On those rare days,

When you ask me

If you look okay,

With your playful tone

Only just hinting

At the nervousness beneath,

I smile

And adjust the folds

Of your peacock blue saree,

Gently put my face

Against your cheek,

Feel the continents

Shift beneath

Your skin,

And whisper,

“Krasivaya.”

Mother,

You are more

Than

Just beautiful.

---

-The Girl Lost In The Bookstore

The only time I have ever written for anybody. Also, this got featured on ArtParasites, so yaay. 

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