Epiphany by Sruthi Amalan

As I lay beneath a man-made aurora borealis,

I visit myself, properly, for the first time.

I knock on the doors and greet the stranger who opens them.

Her body is blue and bubbly, bursting with ink.

I’m desperate to see everything, so I dare not blink.

I’m dying to only be here, so I do not think.

I walk past the doors and into her home;

infinity where I thought a hollow would be.

Within it, she rose and crashed like ocean waves,

she embraced like a mother and cut like a knave.

And in turn, so did I.

I caressed her curves, I bit her skin,

I soothed her temper, I hit her in

all the places she stored her secrets untold,

All the knots that hold her pains of times old.

Her ink drips, drips, drips

onto the page of my body and mind.

Her living room clocks slip, slip, slip,

out of focus, quietly resigned.