A wraith stares at me from the mirror. Withered, like the last vestiges of tears on Thalia's divine face. The flab under its skin reminiscent of the unburnt carbs, Reminds me of the times it had gorged on a full English breakfast of lies. I had been a glutton for your love, the stretch marks are proof enough, yet the clarity with which you now count my ribs tell a different story.
Eyes are the windows to the soul, they say, And my love for glass panes on french frames had been enough to tempt me to your sapphire orbs. It had shown me the sky. A soft blue, with the barest hint of cotton candy pink, I sigh at the clouds now. Five feet four isn't high enough to jump. Perhaps I should've stood at the edge of the cliff you call your 'pride', or looked into a moss covered lake instead, It had drowned Ophelia, after all.
Kneeling on the church floor, Red clouds my vision as I stare into Madonna's smoldering gaze. With smooth silkened skin and ruby red lips, Raphael should've named her 'the temptress'. Yet, both you and I know how fickle names are. For you, now bear his.
The reflection wavers a bit, Distorting at the corner of my eye as it loses focus, Sins should tempt me, but the greed with which he takes your form in, revulses me even more. I swallow pills with a greater greed now. The sloth in you had left the door to the medical cabinet open. Hot white anger burns the inside of my throat, Like acid running through my veins, Broken bits of glasses from the mirror now dig into the flesh covered in many a scarred tissues. Sins had always been the deadliest. And loving you, had been my greatest sin.
God (or was it a genie?), had granted me three wishes. I remember praying for us to last for an eternity that day. for you to love me back, even for a little while. The third wish, however, had gone in me snagging the role of Aclibiades, the moment the list hung by the high school drama club had your name calligraphed besides Socrates'. Yet, splintered faith only brings you so much. For, your world had always revolved around Xanthippe.
And a century after the last breath left my lungs, after the rivulets of red running down from the blood moons on my thighs had frozen and dried, (like the water of the little fountain beside which we had first confessed our love, I envy the stars, and those little paper rings that our third grade teacher had spied us slipping onto each other's fingers, they lasted longer than 'us'.) my withered wraith still lingers on the hallowed ground beneath which you rest, your headstone bearing initials of a name not mine, but of that of a stranger, it screams, howling with the wolves and the wind, how my Socrates chose hemlock over me.
Honeymoons had always been flowers and chocolate-dipped strawberries, And theirs, had absolutely no reason to be different. So, it was during the darkest hours at Bali, that they had christened their bed. Silken sheets twisting, The sheen of blood, sweat and semen making it glisten even brighter, Dewdrops on the roses, and tears, that hadn't dried yet, adding to the show, One-sided arousal smelling thick in the air conditioned room, Thorns digging into her back, She had bled that night, Vermillion (or was that scarlet?) rolling down her thighs, They called it duty. He called it passion. And she? 'Love', her mind would weakly supply. Hoping against hope that her pinocchio's nose wouldn't grow longer, (It got in the way of kissing) She believed in the laws of manifestation, perhaps? Yet, her words, or better, her wish, did indeed come true. Although, whether it was a shooting star, or lady luck dropping by, still remains up for debate. For the colour, and orgasm, in whose afterglow she would bask on nights like this always took on a particular shade. The shade of red. The shade of lust. The shade of desire. The shade of "love".
Men, and their car zoom by me. With electricity bills, Speeding tickets, And the hold of an occasional lover Clutched in their hands. Cats, and scrawny lil orphaned kids scavenging thru dumpsters, The city chokes, Gasping, as the smoke hides the stars that always made me think of you, I sigh. Atleast we are under the same sky.
WARNING ⚠️ : Controversial content, includes graphic scenes, mentions of rape and abuse, and lgbtq community. Don't like, don't read. (And as always, constructive criticism is welcomed)
Nd I know I'm late since it's 4th April already while the poem revolves around the first of April (April Fool's Day, duh!), So yeah, sorry . Please bear with me.
P. S. : The title of the poem 'takane no hana' is a Japanese term which roughly translates to 'fower on a high peak', or rather unattainability, to sum it up.
Enjoy. Nd reviews too, please.
TAKANE NO HANA
I remember the hitch in her voice, As she would whisper lowly into my ears. Feeling the blood rush through my veins, From the right ventricle to alveolus, Bronchioles to left atrium, Aortic semilunar valves opening with a bang, And out of the aorta it would go, In sync with her hands, lower....lower....lower....lower.... Down the gates of hell, where the sun doesn't shine. I kid you not when I say that I remember the hitch in her voice, For the air hitting my tympanum, still tingles. Feathery touches, butterfly kisses, Trying to stop it from going 'too far', Neck against neck, Chest against chest, Limbs entangled in a sweaty mess, Shuddering gasps of breath that were misinterpreted as pleasure, Hugs still make me break into a cold sweat. Her arms around my shoulder, tugging at the strands of my hair, Manicured nails leaving red crescent scars, She was born on the night of a blood moon. No, it's not paranoia speaking, But her touches still ghost my skin. For the purple bruises where her fingers had dug in, Still won't wash away, even a decade later. Her soft moans filling the room, Followed by screams leaving my lips, As another nightmare breaks. 'Boys don't get raped', I remind myself. Green creeps into the black, Fast-forward time, The soft feminine arms around my waist, Now replaced by large calloused ones. Concerned brown pools staring into my own, I assure him 'it's fine'. Breathing in the April air, I bask in the sun's gaze, and his, One, two, three... I count, There are twenty, sorry, twenty one butterflies in the garden. Yet the ones in my stomach, Outnumber them by a far stretch. The wind whisks away the small beads of perspiration, Much like he did to my heart a few summers back, When I still wasn't so broken, so.... tainted. Google says, crushes last only for four months. But it's already been four years, Since I first wished that we were more than best friends. Broken out of my trance, I see him coming towards me, Glaring at the other guys from soccer to lower their voices, When I flinch at their loud tone. (Crowds, noises - endless arguments with loudspeakers on, Her ornate glass vase shattering against the wall, They still make me take a step back.) He drags me downtown, Ignoring my protests of appointments to keep, My hand in his, (I relish the hold, guiltily) Until we reach a cafe, A quaint little inn-shaped building at the corner of the street. The sun is soft, It's curious rays peers through the glass panes, Caressing the bowl of fortune cookies. Steam rising from the cups of coffee that the waitress left on the table, are now ignored, as he bends over the table. His lips brushing against mine. A whispered 'I love you'. Residue of his minty breath still fanning my ear, Hope rising in my chest, heart speeding up- He sits back with a satisfied smile. -and then it plummets, Just like Icarus. Down...down... down... down... I can hear her mocking laughter ringing through the walls of my mind, again. For the next words that leave his lips, Followed by the slow burn in my chest, Has me wishing that I burnt to death, The night she had set the house on fire. "Happy April Fool's Day, dumbass," he grins cheekily. An albatross flies by. The latte art still floating undisturbed on the forgotten hot caffeine, A Happy April's Fool Day, indeed.
Somewhere down the road When we'd run into each other accidentally I'd still greet you with a smile. And you and me, We'll go on a trip. Down the memory lane, Finding pieces here and there Of fragmented little dreams. And perhaps we'll stumble across two kids, A younger version, but the exact replica of us, Riding boats on the stagnant waters of time, Flying paper planes. Maybe they'll look up at us Wave their hands and grin. 'A new game' , they'll think smiling. A smile that we lost on the way. And we'll greet them too, With equal vigour and enthusiasm. Before envy creeps in. For they have something that we don't. Innocence. The same childlike innocence that fate has stripped us off. Then, perhaps, a strong gale of wind will push us. Bringing us back to the crossroads, That we happened to meet upon, once again. You'll continue down your way, And I'll trace mine. Promising to meet again, After exchanging phone numbers. The phone numbers that'll stare at us, unblinkingly, from the slim rectangular mobile screen. Untouched, even after a year of waiting. Those ten digits that'll never be more than a fleeting thought in our mind, The same number whose caller tune will never ever play in our ears. Taken care of, by dismissively chucking it inside the phone's recycle bin. Where it'll lay for an eternity, gathering virtual cobwebs and dust.
My breath came out in puffs of white. Trying to warm myself from the flame of the lighter, Tuning out the loud knocks on the door, This was the third time the landlady had come asking for money. Fairy lights decorating the neighborhood on Christmas eves like this, Contrasted highly with the darkness of my room. And another lungful of smoke later, I stuffed the half burnt cigarette back into my pocket. It was the only thing I could afford.
How r u guys? So yaa, am finally back.
Posting one of my works (I didn't stop writing, ya know)
But a small warning⚠️!!!!
This is full of controversial stuff, and I did a small take on Christian beliefs (no offence to any of the Christians out there)..so if u don't feel comfortable reading it, u r much welcome to back off
(Guys, a small request..I haven't been here for months...so I dont know the current usernames of ppl who have changed their previous ones...please do tag them if u know theirs)
Writers are not romantic everytime. In fact, they're the one knowing everything about hatred and still keeping it inside adding some flowers made of words that looked beautiful, but didn't live ever. Writers are the greatest liars. They'll tell you that they speak truth in lines, but no! they are lying again. Because their truth sets fire on the ears of those souls who thought that they understand writers very well. See how wrong you know about us. I wonder why it's assumed that writers are blessed with the power to write down their emotions and feelings in an aesthetic way. It sounds as good as sprinkling shining silver and golden sand on the invisible bruises, we decorate pain. Aesthetic enough? Our nights passes by in trials of making out that why the needle of life is in the middle when the plate of sorrow is lower than that of happiness. What kind of balanced equation is this? Why science fails to explain this concept of life? Why even The Almighty who is watching everything wears a sad smile when questioned? We talk about love when we feel unloved, we tell how important happiness is when we're swimming in the dead Sea of sorrow, not drowning, not swimming, still for a while, breathing. We feel cold even if wrapped in blankets but never tried finding the lost sweatshirt. Writers are not romantic when they talk about love, it's just that, they miss it. Their words can be inspiring, encouraging and powerful enough to bring in the change in the life of readers, but the writers..they'll still look for something in their sleepless nights and lonely evenings, finding love and crying their heart out with no tears. You know? Dry eyes are more painful. You see? Writers never cried.
Hello everyone, I m again back after a break of two days. I had an exam so today I am finally free. You people got to know about my hostel life and the weirdos I met in previous write-up. So today , I will introduce you all to my gang up ( yeah the actual fine people I met whom I now consider as family). As we were going with the flow in Allen (you must not forget that with maze,we had to go through a lot or pressure of studies as well), I came across these two best friends from JIND, HARYANA (nam sunkr sansani machi na?). Extremely bold and khatarnak girls named KHUSHI AND KASHISH. They were eventually the first girls me and Divyanshi actually became friends with in our class and in hostel too since we all were in same batch. Giving you the traits , KHUSHI was one of my type of girls. She was super bold and someone jisse sab darte the just because of her tone and language. Our vibe matched great, she was full of warmth and one of those humans who are always there for you in your support. She was talented too, nobody really know her like I know her. We had the best bond one could ever think of. KASHISH on other hand was extremely intelligent and gorgeous. She was dangerous too as everyone thought of her. She is cool and sweet with all but sarcastic too (that's why we matched). She loved dancing and we both did so many performances together as well. Our bond grew so amazingly that we forgot our states or our differences . Ab banne wali thi gang jab actual entry hui humare droppers ki , unme se DEEPALI DIDI, RITIKA DIDI OR SUSHMITA DIDI turned out to be over nice and the best seniors ever. Now we had a group where we have people from Himachal, Haryana and Punjab all together. Deepali didis laugh was so funny that it made us laugh more. We used to study, have fun, laughs, beztis, gossips or ulti harkate. Now by the time we used to go the mess all together. That wait for 4:30 to grab snacks or chaye ka glass was the best indeed. Mess main jakar gappe marna, deepali didi ka taste test or batana ki cheeni Kam hai Munni(little girl) ja le AA. Sometimes me and deepali didi used to talk in pahadi(our native language)just to confuse others and whenever we have to discuss about anyone or just pass a comment to someone, we used to talk in pahadi. That was fun. Singing our native songs and dancing on them and making punjabis and haryanvis dance on them too was indeed fun. Infact I learnt a lot of Haryanvi words and songs too. ( Mane na bera, jamagach, kukar hai and many more plus some songs like batue SA muh leri, bhole tera tatoo, suthri chori etc.etc. ) Tell me if u have heard about any of them too. Speaking and learning punjabi wasn't tough for me as I grew up in a Himachali punjabi family .
Once we( me and deepali didi) were talking to some other girl whom we don't really like and deepali didi said "fuki muyi tu" which mean ( you are idiot ) and we told her that it means that you are toooo beautiful. After she went away, we laughed like that scooter which doesn't start.
Anyways the day we all left was so sad and kind of worst because now we have no idea that if we all will ever meet again specially with the seniors.
PS: I love them all and jab hum main se koi ek bhi mess main na ho toh hume pucha jata tha kahan hai woh.
Agar kisi ek Ko dhundna ho toh bs dusre ke kamre main jakr dhoondlo.
Funfact: warden ki kafi bjai hai hum sbne. (They literally turned my shaitan mode on or I should say vice versa)
I can't reach out to people without your support Tag your friends and Family in comments section to let them know and guys if you don't feel like it then don't force yourself just swipe in a different direction it's fine. Even though I am no-one to ask any favour from anyone of you guys yet I feel you will do support me.
Amorphous Cascade is my debut poetry book that deals with enormous emotions of love and I have tried my best to make it a worth read .
Do you also go through such times where you are at your lowest points? When everything seems so blurry , When every appreciation feels like mere words, When you want to chin up but still couldn't, When your self complexes overpower your mind, When you don't exactly know what you really want, When everything people say sounds annoying, When even the magic words of that fictional mirror can't do any wonders. . . I definitely get such vibes at times but thankfully they are temporary and fragile.