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my name

i trusted you with my name
when i taught it to you

you, the you
in the second person
that has become my dialogical self
irritatingly
speech that is either self directed
or directed at the Other

our stories could be anyone's
with enough empathy
but our name and our skin
are only ours, and our skin
dies with us
but our name
it can be flung

around as nebulous identity
and it can be hidden
and thereby forgotten
as would be in death.

i should not have trusted you
with my name when
i taught it to you.

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लाल वस्तू

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angry

my grandmother used to spot in us a hereditary anger the chest learning to well up blood learning to leap and breath learning to crawl foreheads burning with heat of little children the attempt of anger to become disgusting raging energy that will occupy every living stream. nobody wants to hold an angry person rage drunk, getting bigger and bigger until other people are invisible like ants and you can dissolve them in your hot blood and things around you break and shatter at this point she would hold. a violent hand shaking her away Ya I remember my grandmother used to spot it in us as children already And hold our hand "until you get over your rage I will not let go of your hand"  hold VERY TIGHTLY "I will not leave your hand until you learn how you should calm down" i would fail despite that gesture  to understand what was happening and i could not receive love at that time because i have so much anger But the act she is doing is still that of HOLDING
“ this is the age of rampant computing and of quantitative mania and of  search algorithms running on GPUs looking for a person shaped piece missing dead perhaps? but with a digital trace. leave it to the hypertext of imagination ”