Exodus

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How raw can words get, really?
I seem to have developed immunity
To synonyms of wounds-
I no longer like blunt knives
Only the sharpness of edges
That cut at the thought of a hypochondriac.
Occasionally, I fear my neurons
They delight at the thought of hemorrhage,
A permanent one, scheming against the sympathy
I derive when I become obituaries
Starting with impersonal clauses.
I have always loved hyperboles,
How else would I give answers to your Ten Commandments?
I would rather you make me your suitcase
Instead of a jargon without atonement,
Memoirs never travel forward.

©2023 Kaustabh Kashyap.