No, my nightmares don’t revolve around ghosts and spirits. I wish they would; I wish they were too unreal to Terrify me.
But instead, when I close my eyes, I see a little girl is pinched in her arse,
The full moon weeps a song of her cries, Her own family gives the wolves a pass.
I see the monstrous hands of an old lady Who always lurk on the pavements forbidden. They grab my feet, sudden and steady, For a penny or two. Herstory remains hidden.
I see fire in my eyes and flickering flames As a Shadow chases me from behind.
My dress is his armor, shrouding his shame.
His cold fingers turn my blaze blind.
I see my mother sabotaged by lies: The kitchen cabinet safes her cries.
I see Saraswati bleed ink in the battlefield, She carves her own skin against the night’s shield.
I see kajal smudged like the pyre’s ashes.
Veiled under the dupatta, the doppelganger smiles. Painted across her canvas are carmine slashes,
Her wrist beneath the bangles, by bruises, defiled.
Sometimes, I free fall into a lucid space. I see TVs flash a doll’s leg with a chick head And a cow barking with a bitch face.
A man called History chains the monsters under this bed,
And upon it I lie,
A creature tied,
To the altar to be sacrificed.
I see a manic girl screaming on the roadside, With all her luggage lying beside: “BOL NA! BOL NA! BOL NA!” Like the repetitive sound effects
In the horror movie’s warning: “Don’t let it in, don’t let it in, don’t let it in.” Reverberating and echoing.
And when I wake up, I realize My dreams are not just dreams, I realize
I stand on the liminal space,
Where dreams and reality intermesh.
It doesn’t really matter,
For they have always been one.
Annika Amber is a Computer Science major going in her final year with a keen interest in art and photography. With a dismissal for binaries in her heart and mind, she likes to spend her time drowning in sunsets and chasing poems. Burying half read books in her desolate never-to-be-read-again-land, she mourns their loss and has a dream to become their saviour someday.