"THE ACTRESS" aka "THE MARILYN MONROE SYNDROME" aka "STANISLASKY, WHO?"

My name is Vineeta Chatterjee
I’m twenty seven, female, sexy and lost
I work in the movies by day and write poetry at night
Six hundred and twenty seconds ago, I consumed hundred milligrams of prussic acid
It kills usually in an hour
But if taken on an empty stomach; a lot sooner


My stomach is empty
I've not had anything for two days
But sadness
Anir wanted his malnourished prostitute to look real
He doesn't know anything
I think I've become anorexic
I look in the mirror
This no make up look scares me
I need the blush and the mascara now
Not just to enhance me but somehow to define me
Once, I was sexy as hell
Now my soul feels naked
Without the concealer cheekbones
The glycerin eyes
And the waterproof makeup


I almost smile as I think of what you would’ve said to that
But the Botox has made it difficult for my lips to make the journey
Moreover, there are these new faint laugh lines under my eyes
And therefore, I convince myself, that I should not smile anymore
For ironically, my happiness makes me sad
There's a tiny pimple between my eyes
But I'm sure it'll be gone tomorrow
By then I want you to stand over my casket
And say that I look beautiful
Even with my sky blue lips


In this claustrophobic vanity van
It is as quiet as a tomb.
I'm waiting for the shot to be called
Wouldn't they hurry up, please?
I say to myself
“Open your eyes”
I have so many unfinished scenes left
But he has left nothing behind
Except for the residue of him
Dead good looking
In beauty's spring
Dried up on the satin seat covers


I sip my last cup of tea
Full bodied, freshly brewed Darjeeling
The steam rises lazily from the cup and arouses memories of my childhood
Maqbool’s memories
And that spent- together winter in Manali, our one getaway
And the tea on the porch there


Why did you love me?
Because you actually liked me
And my allegedly irresistible dimples
Maqbool-
To you,
I bequeath my writings
And your fantastic verse which inspired me to write
And to which I listened to bravely,
Not because I looked for the truth in them
But because I looked on them as racy, juicy paperbacks
And occasionally because they were about me
Of course, also because I loved you


I think I don’t miss
Your face,
That was sometimes handsome, sometimes just strange
Your hands
That were so big that my wrists used to get locked in them
Or even your scandalous lips
That liked to kiss me like an adolescent
But I quite miss your eyes
I search for them everywhere-

Alone,
in a crowd,
in every stranger,
in every sudden smile,
in every vigorous handshake,
in every helpful look,
in every flirtatious gaze,

But I haven’t seen anything like them again,
Warm, playful and sweet
Like the wild blackberries I remember from my thirteen year old hikes to Rudraprayag


And so I've tried reliving you through my verse,
You used to love words
No one but you, could cause such bloodshed through a single sentence
No one but you, could hurt me so much
No one but you, could quote Keats while giving me oral pleasure
No one but you, could sing just like John Lennon
No one but you, could kiss me when I screamed
No one but you, could understand my pain. And my prose


Max, I still bear scars from that skating accident....
Now, Anir is calling me for scene 42
But I want you and everyone to know
That when I cry tonight
These tears will be real