Pooja Singh
WILD THINGS
Some days, I do not want to be happy
I want to be suffocated by the closed windows
just to be embraced by the walls of my room
as they get closer
until I cannot tell the difference
between cold chipped concrete
and my skin.
Some days, I do not want to be seen
I want to be wrapped in the blanket of darkness
just to be lulled to sleep by the songs of the quiet
until I forget the scent
of anything-human.
Some days, I do not want to be heard
but only in ways certain wild things are heard
and the whole town knows better than
to come in its way.
Some days, I do not want to be loved
and when I am
even the hands trying to hold me
look like knives
big, sharp knives.