Ceiling Fan, a poem by Abhinav Aradhi

 

Ceiling Fan

I can hear the sounds of chatter,

From outside that flimsy bedroom door,

And I know they all want the best for me,

But I can’t help but abhor them.

 

Because what do they know

About being a teen boy in love?

And how could they know

What it means to never see reciprocation?

 

I’ve got no one cheering me on.

I’ve only got my ceiling fan.

The way it spins,

It reminds me of the circle of life, glorified.

 

And as I tie the rope to my fan’s midriff,

I wonder if I am harming it,

If I am being cruel.

Am I the type of heathen that harms his supporters?

 

I draw up a chair,

One that’ll fly away once I kick it,

Perhaps out the window,

Landing down below like a harbinger and a warning.

 

All I’ve got is my ceiling fan.

I’ve never had much of an entourage.

It’s hard, thinking of all this,

As, pen in hand, I write a note.

 

I’d like to thank everyone who drove me here,

Because you are the precious devils in my life,

Who sparkle with a sinister luster,

And enjoy my specific strife.

 

And of course I’d like to thank

My biggest fan,

Who hangs up there on the ceiling,

Spinning like the cycle of the moon.

 

I stick the note to the bed,

And I take my entire life in my hands,

And I step up onto a waiting chair,
And I slip a rugged loop around my neck.

 

There’s a kick,

Then a few moments of reflexive struggle,

Then a quiet so supreme it trumps the vacuum of space,

Then my ceiling fan stops moving.

 

It’s got no one to support now, after all,

And it no longer looks like the rotation of the Earth.

It looks more like the dead tree planted outside.

Stolid, unmoving, and above all else, depressed.

 

What’s a ceiling fan to do,

When the world gets grounded?