Interruptions

 

Every day, every time,                         

 as I try to speak two words at a time

all I receive is an interruption

and another interruption.

So whenever,

I pick up the air in my lungs to speak a word,

I get interrupted.

My father shouts from a corner of his room.

His voice crashes to every notorious wall

that claps with its ears.

He asks me to do him a favour

and every time this happens,

the favor he asks me to do,

somehow slit the throat of the wire

that holds the chandeliers of my words.

In the end,

my words fall into the wells of my eyes

and my sentences turn me blind.

Every day, every time,                         

as I try to speak two words at a time 

all I receive is interruptions.

So whenever,

I turn to my voice box to utter at least a word,

I get interrupted.

The clouds race with each other

and the sun becomes their referee.

They chase the wind that carries out the Great Prison Escape organized by Bushell.

The lightning cheers for them in awe

and thus pauses in Argentina for 16.73 seconds.

When they finally reach across the finish line,

It looks like my negative 1 has turned positive after crossing 0.

They shed all their sweat like a camelia bush.

My words disappear and what remains is my throat,

Still dry.

Every day, every time,                         

as I try to speak two words at a time

all I receive is interruptions.

So whenever,

I inhale deeply and muster my courage to speak two words,

I get interrupted.

My thoughts begin to perform flamenco.

They lift their filters in the air

so that I can see my imperfections,

to which I chose to turn blind

as the pieces of the chandelier have left nothing in my eyes.

So when my thoughts finally conclude their performance.

My body stands deserted

as if someone stole the gold thread,

I was going to perform kintsugi

on my gender with.

Every day, every time,                         

as I try to speak two words at a time

all I receive is interruptions.

So whenever,

I begin thinking of words to speak; at least two,  

I get interrupted.

My surrounding performs an orchestra,

While I run to my words like

two lovers separated by fate.

My hair race with the clouds that just stopped,

for they were tired.

I jump through the hurdles that

the leaves outside

and the people inside my window create,

and while I jump,

They pull my hair

and a few strands fall.

With every strand,

my letters and alphabets disappear.

So by the time I reach

and kiss my words,

I become full of words

but 'voiceless'.

Every day, every time,                        

as I try to speak two words at a time

all I receive is interruptions.