There are demons.
Hiding inside my wardrobe.
Within layers of full legged jeans, jeering through its rips and tears.
Gaping through the deeper necks and cuts of my shirts.
Popping out from those sleeveless blouses, glaring those mini skirts.
Quietly showing their faces through the slits of my dresses, sliming out onto my thighs.
They crawl over my backless gown, drawing attention of everyone’s eyes.
There are demons. Hiding inside.
Then there are some that hate the sun.
Those that cannot be seen in any kind of light.
These are the ones that make home in my bra and my underwear.
No one can ever see them, no one but me.
As I’m told again and again, I’m told I must hide.
Beneath towels, beneath scarves as I hang them on the line.
There are demons. In my wardrobe. You must know. Hiding inside.
Here is a collection of my poems, scribbled in the middle of nights on the phone, or in a forgotten diary carried through a street in some part of this world, or merely send over WhatsApp as a love note.