Is the door locked?
Checking the locked doors once.
Washing the dirty dishes.
Checking the locked doors once again.
Washing the linen.
Washing the linen once again.
Washing the dishes once again.
Checking to see if the windows are shut.
Checking to see if the taps are closed.
Checking to see if the windows are shut.
Checking to see if the taps are closed.
Checking the locked doors.
Counting the steps from one room to the next.
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
Is the door locked?
Oh no! I must count again.
1.
2. 3. Are the windows shut closed? Completely closed?
1.
2.
I am sure that I locked the door.
1.
Let me check once more.
Checking the locked doors once.
Checking the locked doors once again.
Also appeared in Brave Voices Magazine January 2021 link: https://bravevoicesmagazine.org/2021/01/12/a-poem-by-shiksha-dheda/amp/?
Refugee
I hide from the darkness of the world,
trying to find some comfort between the
letters that I memorize.
Words of affirmation.
Words that make me feel normal.
Less strange at the least.
I embrace the sterility of the walls inside.
Sheltering myself from the rainbow of outside.
I tune into the white noise inside,
Having grown tired of their sensationalistic music.
I lay covered by my cold,
hiding from their warmth.
I am struggling to breathe now.
My own air suffocating me.
My own coldness burning me.
My own noise bleeding through my ears.
My own letters mocking me for my strangeness.
I open the doors.
I open my doors.
To the outside.
To their outside.
To them.
I have been rejected
-left desolate-
-rendered homeless-
by myself.
I am now their refugee.
Also published in Visual Verse January 2021: https://visualverse.org/submissions/refugee-dheda/
The find
I do not know how it started.
On Monday, the glass just seemed a little dirtier than usual.
On Tuesday, the speck of dust on the carpet appeared to be
slightly larger than the day before.
On Wednesday, the photographs hanging on the hall in the
drawing room seemed a little less straight than it had on Tuesday.
On Thursday, all the curtains that had any red colour had to be altered because everyone knows that red equals blood and blood is always bad.
On Friday, I steamed and bleached down all the cutlery and crockery at home before I could use those filthy things again.
On Saturday, all my laundry was washed thrice at 95 degrees and were made to dry indoors, as the air outside must be unhealthy and dangerous.
And on Sunday, well Sunday was peaceful, a conventional day for rest-
but wait…what is this I see?
All the days of the week have been engraved on my hands in the
form of tiny red cracks and spots: guess I just have to wash them out now.
And who knows? Maybe I will wash so hard and for so long a time that
I might just find some relief.
Some peace.
Also published in Ghost Heart Literary Magazine March 2021 here is the link: https://www.ghostheartliteraryjournal.com/the-find-by-shiksha-s-dheda
Bio: Shiksha Dheda uses poetry(mostly) to express her OCD and depression roller-coaster ventures. Sometimes, she dabbles in photography, painting, and baking lopsided layered cakes.
Her work has been featured (on/forthcoming) in Off Menu Press, The Daily Drunk, The Kalahari Review, Brave Voices, Anti-heroin Chic, Versification, and elsewhere. Twitter: @ShikshaWrites
Fevers of the Mind 
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