I cannot describe how hard it is to snuggle against my pillow in the dim dim light with guilt hovering my mind in the cave of your thoughts. It's Saturday night and I wish I could rub off the taste of your hurt that's slowly growing on my burnt skin. 8:00 p.m. and the ache is still here.
I could stay this way for the longest time.
A glass of vodka and a drunk note named after you is lying under my bed, mocking at me, I'm drunk on melancholy for the night. I have enough alcohol to drown in my pain tonight. Enough to escape.
Get out of my head please. Before I kick you out. Cause I don't want to. My head is not a safe place to reside. So leave, and remember to knock next time before you enter.
4 poems later, I'm losing my appetite for your love, feed me more sadness please. Else I might die.
And damn, it hurts to say, but that wouldn't be a great sight. I hope it isn't.
"Write me a poem" - I've written hundreds. But you're not here to read them anymore. My words are though. I doubt if I love you or love these abandoned poems now.
"I love what a glorious mess you are" - You don't. You wouldn't fade away when I was falling apart had you meant that. You lied big time. And I fell for the trap.
Every time I'm finally close to loving myself, you snatch my heart away from me, clawing out blood and stomping it under your feet. How do I keep it safe if you keep walking over me over and over and over and over again?
I'm tired now. After a million attempts, I'm tired. And worn out. I am bereft of tears. It's just alcohol now. And I'm dying slowly. My bones are rusting. And I'm continuing to die.
But it's okay. It always is.
________________________________________________ They fucking lie when they tell you that every cell in your body regenerates itself every 11 months because I still feel these emotions, only with greater intensity this time and it physically hurts to go through it all over again.
You continue to break me like your thoughts and leak my pieces everywhere you go across L.A. Your boots have seen a petal mourning for me at every cementry you've ever been to. You see a ghost of me, and although it crushes my bones, I try to smile through my crooked teeth and bloody gums while my breath remains hitched.
(I'm the most toxic thing you've ever come across. There's poison in my veins and dust on my lips. You turn around and storm away refusing to kiss the ash settled on my cheeks. Tears wash them away but it's already too late.)
You think it'd be damn good to not hear from me again, but lean in closer and you'll hear how badly I've been hoping for you to save a piece of me for your own self.
(My heart won't stop throbbing and it's 2 a.m. as my mind is hung on the song you thought would tear me apart. I wish it didn't. I wish it didn't. I wish you didn't. But my heart's just adamant like me. You made me believe in zodiac signs and now, I hate that I do.)
My therapist wants to unlayer me but I can't tell her that she has to study you to understand what pain I'm going through. I'm 1 hour and 10 minutes late here and I call you thrice but you reject my call and abandon me like the extra cauliflower in your soup and I don't know what to do, so I string a lame excuse together and miss my third appointment in less than a week.
(I wish you'd charged your phone last night before dozing off while talking to your friend about the assignment that went wrong. You always had your priorities straight and I wish I could learn that from you but my mom knows I'm a bad student, have always been.)
2 years ago you asked me if people frown in their dreams and my answer was no. Fast forward to two years, maybe on a windy Friday morning I'd tell you how your nightmares make me feel drunk on broken love but you just don't seem to care and hell, I'm too tired to fix any of what's left in me.
(Running my fingers over the cosy coffee mug, I peek into my empty soul. I pour over coffee to fill the voids in my body but I end up burning my fingers and staining my shirt. You froze my heart with unmeasurable hatred and fuck, one cup of coffee cannot melt it down so easily.)
You and I were flowers from the finest treasure trove, Athirst but flowers. Dessicated but blossoming into wooden and dispassionate aromas. You were art for my heart's sake, And I was art for art's sake.
In a city of burnt fragrances we coexisted. Basking the same burning sun, Shaking the same dust off the wind.
Every time my paper soul took flight, Your contented winds put me to sleep. Ever since you shut the door, I skipped a chapter. ended a cycle, and took my hand off your fuming petals.
Thoughtless roads, benumbed my pain. It didn't matter whether I were a prick to your rose, or you were the poison to my dose. In burnt books of forgetfulness, You endeared me in a crushing state. From a few black roses, And spiraled white orchids To a journal of peace, And rhymes of chaos utterly bereft, I glanced over, to take a good look at what's left.
Cause you and I were flowers from the finest treasure trove, Heading for a fall, Craving no more walls. We were flowers, until one day, you outgrew me and left me parched.
And now I don't know what to do, So, I open my fists and let go of the sediments, Standing at the bend of a road, to find some flowers that aren't rotting like the rest of us.
here is a broken girl, wailing against the wall, for a love that was smoke and mirrors. there is cocaine hooked on her lips and she refuses to let the pain get to her head when midnight lurks around the corner of her dark dark bedroom. with grief-stricken fingers, she knits a lie and hangs it on her door, barring people from ending up in her blood smeared haven. all she has even known is hope so she hops from her seat when she glances at the moon and breaks her limb in an attempt to cage the brightest star in the sky with her tiny hands. melancholy outmanoeuvre's her naiveness and she falls straight into the arms of her lover. it's a crime to sniff tarnishing love off a lover's sleeves and sad girl's don't do that so she pushes him away and darts back into the tiny cage that submerges her fragility as she scatters on the floor. the lights of her room flicker and she hopes to pluck a star from a sky to hang it next to her dreamcatcher so he doesn't appear in her nightmares anymore but hope is a sin she cannot barter for an unhinged obsession and she makes the same mistake of jumping from the highest floor in the building, rubbing her tears away cause there are no stars in the sky tonight and the moon doesn't show up to grieve her loss. this time when she lands in his arms, he doesn't let her push him away and pulls her closer. she is vulnerable and he is her kryptonite and he knows that she melts in the right arms so he brushes his fingers over her wounds, and she prompts him to kill her one last time before he traces his fingers down her neck and tells her how she never learns from her mistakes. it is wildering to fathom why she hates this gentleman who waves at her every time her limbs walk away from him, running into the stale corners of her mind, too big to hover over his pale lips and the lustful gaze that can make her dig her own grave. he doesn't dare to break the starstruck gaze that fills her eyes with loosely held souvenirs from the past and she once again hopes that he'd confess love but he pulls out a dagger and stabs her as he whispers I love you and she smiles as she falls on the ground 'cause she knows that it's hard to escape a love that's designed to kill.
The doors of your room are scared witless of the hurricane you had once swallowed in your mouth at the age of six. You marked countless punches on the top rails of your door and it took them all, unmoved by your outrage. It reminded you that certain things remained unchanged ever since. Your anger is one of them. It outrushes through the gaps of your door, wilting away the white roses dad had brought for you. You flip your book open and keep them anyway. You find peace in caressing the dead. You find peace in caressing the dead. You find peace in sniffing the same dead.
Over the years, your door has learned to bottle up its angst towards you. And you have learned to hide your angst towards the world. Your door doesn't complain anymore. It's eyes hold deep stories of devastation caused by you. But it remains shut throughout the day. The same way you do. The same way you do. The same way your words do.
Your windows don't soak sunshine anymore. You've learned to keep them closed. You often used to wonder why the sun didn't rise in your house. You used to wonder why you couldn't embrace sunshine the way you did as a kid. No one ever cared to tell you, until one day you grew up to realize that you always spread the grey curtains that fall on the windows of your secluded room cause the world ties everlasting expectations on your window plane. Gazillions of them. And you hate waking upto the feeling of dissatisfaction everyday. You hate it. It echoes the same remorseful chant You've let them down You've let them down You've let yourself down yet again.
Your shirt doesn't have buttons. You don't mind wearing it that way cause you used the fragile string to stitch another fragile thing. Your heart. You wear your skirt three inches longer to hide the injuries casted on your left knee. But you fail at hiding the injuries of your heart nevertheless. They're written all over your face. They frown at your ignorance. But you've stopped caring long ago. You don't care anymore. You don't care anymore. Or maybe you do.
You had scribbled something on your notepad. No one read it except your blurry eyes and trembling hands. Your apologetic eyes still look for an answer. They look for an answer in every person you've abandoned. And now, you need an answer desperately. You want to know if it's okay to run away one day if you fall short of words to write and tears to wipe. If it's okay to hide when you start to feel caged in the hands of the helplessness. You know the answer. And you know what you'd rather do. So, you crush the piece of paper and slip in the pocket of your denim jacket. You can't help but run away You can't help but run away Running away is all you do.
You avoid answering the questions that make you falter every now and then. There are seventy eight messages and twenty four calls you'd put off cause they all had their angry glares fixed upon you. All waiting for an answer you didn't bear. You could utter what they wanted to hear but the questions weren't about to end any soon. You wish it were easy. You wish people could understand your silence and leave you on your own. You didn't bear answers cause they were expensive and you couldn't afford them. You couldn't afford answers. You couldn't afford answers. You couldn't afford silence either.
You often ask yourself if life would've been any better if you had answers to the questions they expected from you. You ask yourself if there's any other way you can make them believe you are doing okay. You realise you do. Although you have no more answers, there's blood on your skin, still fresh from the cuts you had last night. There's bruises that gleam in the daylight, no one else knows about. You have no more answers, but maybe if they visit you someday, you can show them your wounds and tell them you're alright.
imagine a bird. broken beak and bleeding gums. claws towelled in blood. feathers scattered on the floor. bruised hope. failed attempts. staring into the oblivion. crashing into the terrors of the dark. feeling blue. flap flap flap. staggered breath. unable to take flight. imagine it as a last fleck of hope stomped down by a passerby. no more fluttering. only silence.
that bird is me. i'm that bird. and i'm dead tired of the inability to love myself. it's almost tragic. i continue to torture myself with toxic thoughts - enough to give me a cardiac arrest. "calm the fury. be happy. what part of it do you not understand?". i long for an answer. i genuinely do. i am spaced out. on the edge of death. and the urge to give up is brewing stronger with every passing day. i don't know where to begin. i wonder what it'd be like to love unconditionally just for a day. to feel the same being reciprocated. or even the half of it. but the reality is so much to bear. i'm flat out exhausted and there's not a scrap of energy left in me to soften the gelid body - residue of a soul that was long dead.
i keep dreaming of dying when all i really wish for is to be free. from the guilt hovering my mind. the noose around my neck. sometimes i feel hands around my neck. it's suffocating. i can visualise myself lying on the floor. in fragments of anxiety and anger. i am breathing but i'm not alive. i can't tell the difference, honestly. i'm losing everything i once daringly built. and i can't put an end to any of it. cause i'm my own destructor - with daggers in both my hands and a crown made of thorns working against me.
my heart is a giant pit and there are too many wounds and holes to fill. while i eagerly wait to watch my petals blossom, i'm breathless. and convinced that i'm gonna wither away. it's one of those nights when i wish someone could sing me to sleep. it's been so long i've closed my eyes. i fear i'll never open them again if i do.
i want to draw a heart and fill it with colours. blue. pink. purple. and yet, all i manage to draw is a pair of eyes with tears trickling down. and smudged mascara concealing tales of its own. i lost a track of triggers. everything makes me insecure lately. pricks my will. i catch myself crying and i don't remember why. my head hurts. my jaw hurts. my chest hurts. everything hurts. everything. i'm not sure if death could get any worse. i carry the weight of my sadness and it keeps feasting on me. there's a knot in my throat. it feels wrong. everything feels wrong. it all feels so heavy. i never knew how to take care of my heart. it's a shame that i still don't.
i took myself for granted. it has become a habit now. i traded my peace for nothing. from the moment sun rises to the moment it sets, i'm waist deep in my thoughts. consumed by the wave of overwhelming emotions. and i don't know what i feel anymore. it feels like i'm lying on my deathbed. chin up, back straight. they say "stop crying" oh well. i can't talk. i can't move. my bones are damaged. and so am i. it's terrible at night. there's a noise haunting me, nudging me to prod the dagger straight into my rib cage. i try to look past it, hoping for it to disappear. but it's still here. mourning for a mysterious death. and i think to myself, "how long will i pretend to be alive before i ultimately boil and die?". there are no answers. only silence.
falling in love is low-key committing suicide. and the thing is i'm fucked up. beyond repair. it's too late to turn my back. too late to make a quick exit. to pull the shutters down. to pause. to breathe. all odds are against me.
it's time to silence the sobs that gasp for air. for survival. to hush the rapid breathing that chokes dysphoria on his shoulders. chestnut eyes. wide open. no eye contact. we gape at my charcoal grey soul dicing the heart coated in blood into chunks bigger than the size of my nightmares.
he coughs celebrated misery and fills me with madness. leaving me aghast. dumbfounded. open-mouthed. i stare in awe. as he jabs my back and scribbles "i love you". shoving my tounge down his throat makes me feel sick. and yet i can't resist the urge to grab his hair and push him against the wall. even if i had the power to pull away, i'd snuck myself deeper into his armful of insolvent emotions, envying the truthfulness of a murderer in disguise.
on the hooks of the walls are regrets enduring bitterness of a zigzagged fresco painting, hanging upside down like our lives - too messy to be untangled. nothing makes sense anymore. my mind is obssessed with the idea of him. the thought of losing him evelopes me into disgust. he visits me every night. and goddamit, it feels completely natural to fall by the wayside. collapsed. down in smoke. running like the wind. 45 miles per hour. vanished like the lightning. hard to get a grip on.
i feel weak. cut off from my own self. "never poke a finger into a live wire. it zaps", they say. ripping my conscience away, i reason it with the pain that was all too tempting to devour.
letting go is lousy. inapt.old-fashioned. and the last thing i care about in this godforsaken world is my wretched heart. so i hold him. close enough to feel his breath against my skin. and watch him walk off. miles and miles away. how on earth did i come to hear of an unpromising act of disloyalty? a kick in the gut. blow by blow. stab by stab. the sight of blood stirs up his elation.
it still bothers me how the yearning for more creeps upon my mind. i brush it off in a jiffy. no second thoughts. no second guesses. no second chances. nothing's broken. nothing's injured. yet when i sink my hand deep into the jar, hurt drips off my fingers like a honeyed blend.
would you believe me if i told you i wish to rise from the cesspit of his forlorn love? windpipes choke me everytime i move. they protest. they defend. and contend. shaky hands as fragile as sliced bread. eyes boasting a betrayal sharper than lion's claws. bragging a love that fired a melancholic spark of hatred in me. to destruct. to destroy. and the worst part - to write an end. to die.
it's not your fault. you could never save me. so here, take the knife and storm away from the pool of my blood before i uncontrollably bawl and weep cause i knew all along you were feeding me venomous lies and deceit.
Painful death is when he pushes you down the cliff, rushes down to pick your corpse and repeats it endless times to inflict the fear of death imbibing in your mind. Cold flooring. Red roses. Pleas of keeping you alive. Dandelions weep and wail on concrete graveyards. Postcards and notes jammed in bottles read suicide notes of someone who was too coward to push his hand away and let the valley scribble death on her wrist where half-baked love notes were saved.
Painless death is a lie. You keep silencing your dubious attempts to run back to him. Words that rot at the tip of your tounge behold conversations you yearn for on nights the world burdens your shoulder's. Sitting on the wall is a ghost of love that haunts you on days voices slip under missed calls and blank texts. Agony is the only emotion flowing in your veins and when you slash your wrist, your wait comes to an end and the sweet nothing's inspect a vacant land uniting guilt and ego.
there is nothing sassy about shoving arms into oversized sleeves and burning up on the inside to blind the coldness that cuts through the silence and settles like ice on bruised skin. about calculating how you stop breathing everytime anxiety fouls up your body. or rehearsing "i am fine" before the broken mirror every morning as you find it tricky to plaster that smile on your face.
it's a curse - waking up to not remember how you find vodka dripping off your mouth and lies hung on the walls, shining brighter than fairy lights. to reach out for a push, a quote, or a mere voice urging you to carry on. get out of your bed. count to five. five. four. three. two. one. and breathe.
you haven't really felt helpless unless you've experienced fireworks cracking in your ribcage, pupils widening cause of anger and coal tar peeling off an inner conflict that wouldn't fade into the abyss as your stretched soul continues to stare at the ceiling - the white and glossy walls that beg a forbidden apology disabled by the radar of emotions.
do you know how it feels to stand closer to a demon and glare at his unusual sheen of sweat? eye to eye. to stand with arms crossed and track the status of your wild destruction? to gain a toolbox of tin cans and metal barrels and turn against yourself?
to change your mind.
to welcome him back.
to set the path for your ruination.
when damaged people love, feirceness turns into obsession. rivalry turns into crimson footprints. that marks the misery that's poured down every time the insatiable quench of the demon stings. the pangs in chest become tantalizing. falling into a mericiless pit suddenly seems tempting. the yearning to terribly fall for a noxious. lethal. and explosive figure becomes animalistic.
and you are damned.
it's like jumping into fire with full gusto and watching the world blur out before your eyes. even before you get a taste of their shrieks and violent sobs, they're gone. for a periphery.
the worst way of losing the battle is to be afraid of losing the demon in the fight. to still care about the demon himself. to love the gambled version so much that you outcast your extra-large feelings and slide into the dark. where he's known to reside.
he isn't charming and thrashed, all the things you hoped as a young girl and started to loathe as a teenager. he's not the same broken angel you once fell in love with.
he is fractured. they say, it's too much to hope to find a fix. to be loved back. the last taste of hope is death. and the only thing you can do is cross your fingers and hope that your last wish is granted.
Our room is still full of that acrylic smell, which reminds me of your paint smeared hair, your brushes with colourful stains are still in my drawer, poking sore memories rather cruelly, tiny tubes of paint, in various shapes, crooked from your insistent squeezing are still scattered across my table, and those pieces of art you left for me still stacked in my store room, portraying love, pain, anger and despair, reincarnate our life together which is just a mirage now, I don't know where you've gone, or why you've gone, but you are here with me in thousand forms, enclosing my days in shades and tints, astonishing me with your lines and curves, you were like your art, enigmatic from the outside, fascinating once you go deeper, layered with a great assortment of nuances, you illuminated my life with exceptional vividness, you never talked about your feelings, but I could see them in your paintings, they crooned for your love, screamed for your sorrows, and shouted for your fury, they embodies your rights and wrongs, and you are alive for me in those canvases, Wherever you are, remember, I love you more than anything in this world, and the fragments of your soul you rendered with grandeur in these paintings will be cherished, forever and always, in my life and heart.