My ma's been buttering me with love ever since her egg turned into a zygote, but the people around have been scalping off love with razors that left behind cracks. Once I was walking on a street full of humans, self doubt then settled down like dust between bones, my ma ran towards me with a cloth to dust away the toxin, but before she could reach me, the wounds were sewed and I was tied to a window while my ma broomed around the house that had its own layers of filth, conspiracies, lies and politics. As the sun sets, she'd make piles of all the garbage she's gathered and would turn to me with more love, but before she could reach me, the trash was thrown on her. I was tied to a window, with self doubt in my bones- the hair that grew on me were of hatred, no matter how many times they were waxed, they'd grow back again. My dad called me strong, and I asked ma why'd he say so and she told me because I'm a warrior but I didn't tell her that every warrior is not strong and warrior just might be an overstatement, for someone who fights with life in day to feel like they belong in it, and with demons at night to feel like they don't belong with them is a warrior ? And did I add the word, fails? Pimples on my face, and I call them failure and self loath for they too won't leave. There's skin and there are scars and there's more skin over them. It's then coloured with rainbows and smiles, tears don't wash away the colours but they do smudge them a little, so the layers on the top, they're beautiful. There are holes in my soul from the thumb pins that were stuck in it everytime I was heart broken or I broke a heart which was later filled up with ignorance.
I never knew who I was, there were way too many layers and I'd been pretending they are a part of me,and now I have forgotten who I am.
Can love help me find my way back to myself again? If yes, will you butter it on me the way ma used to?
I write in secrecy maybe that is why I write at all.
I frame my words into a sketch of someone who is not me but someone who lies in every heart out there along with fear.
I avoid truth bombs because they can ignite wars between hearts and minds and you don't want to loosen your grip on suppressed emotions because you'll need them later to beautify your poem.
I place truths on a balance against 30 grams of guilt, then place it in a beaker and pour in 70 litres of lies. I add metaphors; adjectives to diluted truths according to the number of paragraphs- not too much, not too little, just enough.
With my father off to deep seas and grandma struggling to breath, I add a pinch of emptiness and a bucket of pain in those words, ending it with a sigh of exhaustion.
My ma's calling my name so I'll end this abruptly and hide my diary under the sheets,
I write in secrecy, maybe that is why I write at all.
-now it's on you to deduce how diluted this piece is-
Beauty is incomprehensible and it lies in every nook and corner of our little world.
Our universe is a chaotic piece of art with strokes of paint, mixed in tears and smiles, smeared all over the blues and greens. It's like a rubik's cube, but with 56 colours instead of 6, randomly placed inspite of their shade or type and every combination they form is different and enthralling.
There's beauty in imperfection and uncertainty and that is what life stands for. The voids are not empty but waiting to be filled, for there's beauty in hope and in failure because when you add a teaspoon of light in a pot of darkness, it will shine like no star ever has.
Beauty is a town- a peculiar one as it resides is us rather than the other way around. It is built with grey bricks, older than humanity has known and it stands tall on pain and love, dreams and aches. And this town comes with a well of realization, for only those who believe in beauty, can feel beauty.
//beauty ain't a woman, but beauty is you and beauty is me//
How do I not look back when the mirror infront of my eyes shows me all the lanes I(we) have been through some smooth, some rough but with your hand in mine my heart in yours. Persistent.
How do I not run back when the path ahead is scary while the ones with the traces of your footsteps and our love are placid who'd kill the monsters feasting on my dreams, if not you. Intripid.
How do I not want you back when you got me addicted to dopamine dependant on your smile to give my heart a dose of happiness instead of wine but when you left, you took away the keys to my glands, now I rely on solanin. Poison.
How do I not write you back even after you stopped sending me letters my words have always revolved around your existence blur in the middle, focused on the edges jagged, sharp and satisfying words too are falling short to fill the holes you left. Voids
i wanted to write something buoyant so i titled it love. it took me two hours to stop, tear the page, wipe away the tears and realise how love is not sanguine but a journey with no mirrors placed at the blind turn, dusty roads that start from one end of the rainbow but rarely do the travelers find the other end.
i flipped the next page and titled it family because they say a happy home is where family is. within an hour i found myself tearing that page. it took me five minutes to gather pieces of myself i spilled in the last hour.
a deep breath.
i titled the next page as friends but it took half an hour for the memories to wrap me and suffocate my already choking lungs. i tore off another page while inhaling toxic mist of betrayal with watery eyes. (betrayals are worst than onions. noted?)
i scrolled through various apps for an hour searching for joyous quotes but ended up questioning their authenticity, as my heart was still withering. i put my phone away when it hit me, "writers write for themselves." those positive lines, were them watering their own heart. they won't pull me out of the pit but they did pull 'them' out.
i titled the last page of my journal 'sanguinity' and i wrote about the sky. how it's so vast, and holds itself and everything together. it helps me believe in hope. in myself. in good after bad. i call it, sky-a friendly void.
i wrote about him. about her. who'd walk behind me in the storm with a broken rainbow on his shoulder and a withered flower in her hand. i have waited for them to stop, to return. but their belief in me was stronger than a rainbow and a flower. i wrote about my parents's eternal love. the pure relation between me and my siblings.
i did not write about toska but selcouth. i wrote about accepting the lacuna. not filling it.
i wrote about happiness and i felt it. the flower in my heart is blooming, slowly.
I wrote this while seeing a sunset. My journey hasn't ended but I now know the purpose. I'll write here again when I feel like it.
How lovely must it be that I have the liberty to seek my own way and make my own mistakes safe in the knowledge that you have forgiveness seared into every corner of your infinitely kind heart.
How lovely are the words that breathe life into a sunrise, the words which form the flesh and bone of a song the words which don't make it to the page yet make you cry.
How lovely is the pause that split second of silence the beats of your heart that shadow at the door before the chaos breaks out and screams rent the air and you think of a child who showed you love and taught you to care.
she comes home and switchs off all the lights her mother left on. takes out a flask from the dimly lit refrigerator. (one angry day and she will break it's light too).
she turns on her blue lava lamp, the only light she can bear and sits on the sofa watching the shadows on her wall. the sounds of her aquarium puts her brain to sleep. (she loves water). oh she's about to fall deep asleep when the neighbours baby starts wailing.
startled, she spilled some on her new sofa. her mother will ask numerous questions regarding the spill. there are no babies or questions in the bathroom. only moonlight and water. the water turns her breathe into bubbles and the sound of bubbles puts her to sleep again.
Sometimes they laugh because they do not see what is so beautiful about clinging on to candlelit dreams at the edges of your hair; they have not a prayer of comprehending the peace that floods into your skin like fresh air upon holding fireflies in your fingers.
Sometimes they laugh because they read the words scribbled but not the soft laughter that lies between them they will never have the simple pleasure of knowing what music does to your soul when your body has forgotten how to listen.
Sometimes they laugh because they think they know you because they have memorized every inch of your face, and every unsteady step of your feet but they never have and never will know the white hot flame of your shadow nor the red mist that is the cornerstone of your heart.
You know the days when you get the mean reds? Paul Varjak: The mean reds. You mean like the blues? Holly Golightly: No. The blues are because you’re getting fat, and maybe it’s been raining too long. You’re just sad, that’s all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you’re afraid, and you don’t know what you’re afraid of. Do you ever get that feeling?
A good writer feels and thinks his words in the shades and tints of the same color.
If pain is red, burgundy is suffering, agony is scarlet, and crimson is tormenting, ache is sepia, hurt is dusty, anguish is vermilion, misery is rusty, throbbing is carmine, excruciating is bloody, lava is deep, and soreness is muddy.
and then there is dard, vivid and intense, pulsating in tones of maroon with a tinge of darkness in the brightest of reds.
"Go", says the voice on the other side of the creaking door and my heart knows only one of us can be saved, maybe the gods have written it such that only one of us will be saved so I bolt towards the blinding light, leaving your footsteps to fade away in the dark.
A decade has passed and your face is a memory seared into the outer edges of my weary skin, your voice a song that I forget, yet it floats at the tip of my tongue your life a pawn I traded for a month of freedom and a lifetime of nightmares.
Here lies the tide resting at the depths of a restless ocean a tide that shall surely make its way to the shore and sweep away the sand, wash away the footprints, no matter how much you will it not too.
Here lies the storm that is waiting at the edge of ashen skies a storm that shall surely wreak havoc of a kind quite terrible for a sane mind to truly comprehend it carries death and misery no matter how much you will it not to.
Here lies the butterfly that shall alter the course of history forever.