Peering at my body in the looking glass,
I judge my wide forehead and bulbous nose,
my buck teeth and rosacea skin,
graying hair and sagging bosom,
cellulite, stretch marks, et al.
How unsightly, how aged!
I am no longer young, no longer petite –
teetering on the edge of extinction,
the absence of purpose,
this decaying body and life!
Throwing rocks at the moonlight,
I try to shatter its reflection,
self-hate is such a leech!
How it clings to you and feeds off you,
it refuses to leave until it has sucked the last ounce of
confidence and peace.
Sinking into the sludge of time,
I find myself transfigured,
the insurmountable agony of aging,
the torment of self-hate,
the love that I desperately sought in others,
I should have discovered within myself!
Still I Rise
Writing in spurts,
snatching chunks of time,
a few minutes here, an hour there.
Writing – a snug refuge in a cold world:
opening and closing,
closing and opening,
the heart blooms and wilts everyday.
Life is fleeting,
things change in the blink of an eye!
Tuesday follows Monday,
then comes Wednesday,
I wait and wander,
wander and wait,
when the hurricane is over,
the rainbow might follow.
life goes on.
I am overcome by the torrent of things
so obvious and inevitable,
they cast no shadow.
still I rise.
About the Author
Swati Moheet Agrawal is a poet and writer based in Mumbai, India. Her work has appeared in The Criterion, The Dribble Drabble Review, The Pangolin Review, Mad Swirl, Ariel Chart, Café Dissensus, Active Muse, Setu, Kitaab and is forthcoming in Thimble Lit Mag, The Spring City, Cogito Literary Journal, Chasing Shadows Magazine and Muse India. Follow her on Instagram @swatiwhowrites