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the soul left the body. the figure wanders across the room, still searching for food.
hunger from a life unlived. pangs.
the sun is out and inside, ashes taste like home.
crumbles. wisteria purple, bittersweet nightshade.
a field in full bloom and no eyes to admire.
socket. unplugged.
opening the fridge, staring into the void of existence. closing the fridge.
opening. closing. opening. closing. opening. closing. opening.
the ritual continues. and so does, misery.
© Nimila, Studio Shyama
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Read more
on unrequited love
on our current dystopian reality
on the wonders of nature
on intergenerational trauma
on systemic racism. a torn bit of my story.
Black Mary
I don’t remember much of the recital, just that I was standing close to Jesus.
Jesus was an Argentinian kid named Diego.
Hi, my name is Nimila. As a queer person of color shaped by diaspora, I learned early how easily certain voices are reduced or misread. So I write anyway. Remembering that claiming space on the page is not personal. It’s political.
I am not here to fix my language. I am here to dissect it. Question it. I write for those who sense that their interior life exceeds the categories imposed on them. For those who feel alienated navigating constraints and tight definitions. If you are new, feel free to wander through my work.
Studio Shyama is the creative space I’m building, intentionally, where language becomes a site of resistance. Thank you ❤️
Oh Nimila🥺 I can feel a dissociative experience all over this, beautiful and heartbreaking 🖤🌷
i love the idea of our souls being hungry. what kind of food feeds them? i wonder. beautiful poem.