The Pile

On
day one,
you don’t fold
that on handkerchief
because you are tired of doing
it all the time. And everyone you
know, lets it slide. It’s a chore, it’s
not gonna make a world of difference
if it is in or out: just a wolf-whistling in
your direction, or a brush past against you
on the bus— a single sock can just be thrown
away, maybe, even a few clothes could be folded
later, tomorrow is another day. Dumping them at
the back of the closet is always an option. It won’t be
right in your face that way. The squeeze of one boob,
a pinch, or one slap on the butt in a dark alley, could be
buried under there— behind the stack of laundered relationships,
well-ironed memories, and closed antique almirahs. you let it pile…
A casual uninvited hand on the waist here, a dress draping the chair
there, you let it pile…and when the coat stand can no longer bear its
own weight, you out the uncle who Your family swept under the sofa in
the living room and it backfires honour in your direction. So, you let it pile.
Now, you sit alone, in a closed room, binging on ice-cream, wearing sweat
pants with chilly stains on them, cause they are relatively clean. you let it pile,
and it piles and piles till there are mountains of mouths stuffed with all the world’s
single socks (used and unwashed), even a teacher dumps his laundry on your
bed, under the covers, in your head, And, now the stuffing in your mouth, down
your throat, is the longest, most colourful string of magician scarves that everyone
claps for, shoved in with a crowbar, by big hands, bigger, till it is in your oesophagus,
(and do they swim in your intestines yet? ) and when you try to scream (the same old
story), in this ocean of hashtags, you are just one news article, that they’ll scroll over.