My Diary

black, cardboard-bound
pages of recycled tree-trunk pulp
hold memories

of sorrow, spilled tears
stain narcissistic pages oily
like memories of Vengayam-Bajji*.
Edible spatters uplift mediocrity coloured
by coffee rainbows amongst woeful metaphor.
Spinal scars ripped apart by time
and poor temperament tend gingerly
to their wounds with practiced precision
evidenced by weary wrinkles

across the page, memories
of writers from the past
overwritten by redundancy. Ochre-tinted pages
mark their successful stand against time.

*Vengayam-Bajji: A popular South-Indian fried dish
consisting of onion coated in flour.

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