Crying would be much more fun
If it wasn’t so uncomfortable.
It’s supposed to be catharsis, not
Cauterized eyes and dripping noses.
I want to be that sexy lady in a
Diaphanous nightie, stretched out
On a chaise lounge
Weeping into an ineffectual lace hanky.
The moonlight streams in,
And in walks Guru Dutt singing
Chaudvin ka Chand…
Instead, my hand-me-down-from-the-son Captain America t-shirt has dal stains,
My pants are torn at the crotch,
And hair that hasn’t been washed in a week.
I stumble about in the dark
Hunting for a hanky, settling for toilet paper.
I stub my toe on the dresser
And hop around in pain shouting, Motherfucker,
And immediately look around guiltily for any stray children who may have heard
And will use it as an effective weapon of blackmail.
It ruins the moment.
I have to begin again, think sad, poignant thoughts,
To kick-start the lachrymal glands,
Who are quite put out by the brake-clutch- brake drama and refuse to co-operate.

©Hema Gopinathan Sah 2018

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