Pain and Glory
My lower spine tingled through the entire movie

My neck went stiff and arms limp

The guilt of a child and expectations of a mother

took the shape of one giant teardrop, stuck in my throat

at an awkward angle

Almodóvar’s poetry and Antonio Banderas’ sublime dance

rose and settled like tides under my skin — about to explode

in tiny particles

The writer in me relaxed, she realised, not every story needs to be told

The writer in me wrote soft notes on my mind-wall, for a time, not now

The first stroke of sexuality, the etch of a storyteller, one beautiful coincidence after another, sunk chest deep in water

Songs of actual mothers by a running stream, their desires and half-willed yet joyful acceptance of life — made me instinctively aware of all the life moving fast and slow outside the many theatres we sit in, live in

A child in his simple existence — bolder, smarter, from a world not of his mother’s, in a world mostly hers. Books were trees and flowers accessories in paintings. He bloomed alright, only to start wilting before time — settled as a half dry rose hanging by a branch not falling any time soon.

Addiction — not a monster, neither a seductress

Addiction — not a crutch, neither an exodus

Addiction — just a partner, ending its journey before we do
['Shringi Kumari']
['Addiction', 'Prose', 'Movie Review', 'Poetry', 'Almodóvar']