It’s here
Hear, I have to go
On a journey
a trip
a lift
in a portal
rush, the onrush
squeeze inside
the tiny room
closer
close the door
congested space
like space and stars
twinkling beacons
the tips of breasts
begging to be chosen
touched, touch one
excitement
desires suspended
for a minute
maybe two

or you can let the darn elevator go and kiss me instead

The sting of sacrifice camouflaged in fierce expression
Tongue held but language in hands
Hands curled, prepared to preach a fire
and in his divine eyes swims truth
That our being is not sun kisses and rainbows
He wears vestments of courage and resolve
And believes in what others doubt
He is magnificent he is merciful
And he knows it
Let the sermon begin

written by malai carrara
photography by nausher banaji

She turns and twists like flickering fire
watching the reflections on blackness and following shadows on wind
caught from falling but tethered
and anchored down by thwarted dreams
the night wind whirls with silent screams

I am suspended between two lives
Longing to ascend to tender branches
Where wings and songs soar
Aching to find your echo

Tall black walls that reach the sky to shape a safe, secure place where doubts discard and fears are lost and all is happy. But these dark walls confine the quiescent denizen and after time, truth becomes untrue.
Black fortifications trap beauty in but also hold beauty out. Living on the other side the muted song of soft rain, the blacked out voice of authenticity and of course, hurt and pain. These sweet gifts denied.

words by malai carrara
photography courtesy nausher banaji

An unsteady gaze
thin walls and thin skin

fallen tresses and deep regret
flesh lit like soft marshmallow
and grief curling from it like smoke

a click in your throat
and knots in your knees
like the swirled trunk rounds of cut trees

written by malai carrara
photography by nausher banaji

She inhales
the caustic scent
of ambivalence.

Sees the unshaven face
of an ego suspended -
neither here nor there.

the contours of her eyes and mouth
changing and twisting
with each sip from the cup
of acrimonious promises.

a slow burn
as the venom circulates
trickling further and further
Spare me

Written by malai carrara