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  • ivy_words 106w

    broken frames, broken stories

    Maybe if I stay in bed long enough, my eyes will finally give in, she thinks. She longs for a lullaby, anything that could her fatigue defy.

    Waiting to catch a glimpse of her long forgotten friend, her gaze wanders to the window sill. Christmas lights from last year, now a tangled mess, lay covered in a mass of dead flowers. She makes a prayer for them to somehow grow. But then she thinks otherwise. There is a peace, she thinks, in death, in sleep. There is a peace in letting go.

    Her thoughts grow heavier, her eyelids, never. Patiently she awaits slumber. She awaits an acquaintance that had long since eluded her being. Her eyes are tired. Her soul, withered. But not weary enough to deserve some rest? She curses providence.

    Her eyes drag onto the broken frame on the side table, and then they travel to the shards of glass on the floor. The third time today she hurt herself on the glass. Tracing the crimson path, her eyes land on her feet. A sharp pain she feels for a second. She remembers mother’s words. Tell me where it hurts, I’ll make it better. Everywhere, she whispers, everywhere, amma.

    The digital clock next to the frame reads 2:11 a.m. Sleep still refuses to accept her hand of friendship. Back to the empty frame her eyes travel. A broken frame.
    She lifts her frail hands as if to hold on to something. They fall back down beside her broken body. My broken frame, she laughs. For months she would reach for whatever would fill the gaps. She would rake and maul at the emptiness, the void. But no more did the space between the cracked glass disturb her. It no more sought to make its nagging presence known to her.

    Sleep, come to me, she begs. She craves this drug that everybody, but her, seem to so easily receive. Take me somewhere unknown to reality. Take me somewhere it cannot ever touch me. Let me not bother waking up. Just let me be, her body cries. Pressed against the satin sheets of her empty bed, she continues to hopelessly tend to her starving head. Gift me only a few moments of drowsiness, and I’ll adorn my rousing mind with broken images of a home away from home. Please, she begs, please. She waits in silence. She stares into nothingness.

    Head propped up against a wall of endless thoughts, at the clock she looks again. 6:32 a.m.
    I have got my feet enough cuts to last a week, she thinks. It’s time I clear the glass.
    This time, her feet carefully avoid the rubble.

    akira || broken frames, broken stories

  • ivy_words 107w


    Margo would move all of the furniture towards the walls. Even the big old couch she loved to keep at the centre of the living room. She didn’t care if it made the scraping sound it always did. She didn’t care if its legs were close to falling apart or if it almost tore apart our already tattered mat. It is for the greater good, she would say. You need to be able to breathe to dance, she would say.

    But Margo was forgetful. She wouldn’t put things back in place. She would leave a gaping hole in the middle of the room everyday. I wish I was strong enough to bring the couch back to its spot. But I succumb to my weakness every night. Today more than the other days, I let myself give in. What good is the spot or the couch without her.

    3 days, Margo. You have never stayed away that long. You know I can’t stand Wednesdays alone. The walls are closing in on me. The couch is weak. It can’t hold them back. Come back and push everything else against them. Come back and make space so you can dance with me, for me, once again.

    I turn the music up. Today, it is louder than usual. I wonder if she hears it too. I wonder if her feet hurt to feel the soft familiarity of our frayed rug once again. I dance along to that song she hated but knew all of the steps to. I seem to have forgotten most of them. I’m sorry, Margo. I try. But I can’t dance. I know you know. I know when you lie.

    I wish I had told you earlier, Margo.

    I wish your feet slowed down for only a minute, just enough for me to let you know that your happy feet dance yes? It is my absolute favourite.

    I wish your ears paused for just a little, only enough for you to listen to that laugh you let out, somewhere in the middle of that favourite song of yours. The sound of it still echoes in here, it will still remain my absolute favourite.

    Maybe I’ll tell you today if you don’t forget the groceries on your way. Please come back so I can tell you today and watch you laugh off every word that I say.

    akira || margo

  • ivy_words 118w

    she learnt to cut

    She laughs but doesn’t quite hear it. Something is wrong, she mumbles. The walls echo only to this. A mechanical chant, the same words play on her cold blue lips. She had promised not to repeat the gore. But she wants to tell you her story and so a little instrument her hands find. Funny how they would hide from the cold but didn’t mind the metal against their bare covering. Rolling up those bright red sleeves, she prepares her canvas. The paint from her earlier work has left clear marks across her paleness. ⁣
    The tip of her brush gently touches her blank. She jumps as the cold brushes against her sensitive. She cries, wishing it was easy. She wishes she would get used to this. Like so many others did. ⁣

    She had waited. For so long. She waited patiently as the weather outside changed to the weather inside of her. As the winds whistled in around the windows threatening to almost bring them down, she knew she had waited enough. ⁣

    The paint gushes out dripping onto the floor. With it, runs out of her veins, people and places and moments. Life runs out and with it, all of it’s endowments. There was a calm. A pain that was the right amount of numbness. A sting that was the right amount of pain. The crimson decorated the white floors. She had always liked that colour against the bleakness. ⁣

    Her eyes then grow tired of the growing red spot. Her ears grow weary of the sound of dripping paint. What a waste, she thinks in disgust. She lays down her brush and makes the promise once again, her sleeves pulled down once again to veil her art. She starts cleaning up her mess careful not to spread the colours onto her mother’s favourite bath mat. Eyes welled up, cheeks red from exertion, she smiles at her reflection on the foggy mirror. Good enough, she sighs. She repeats the promise pulling at the sleeves that veil her art. She repeats the promise. For until next winter.⁣

    akira || she learnt to cut ⁣

  • ivy_words 139w

    i strongly disapproved of your taste in music

    I’d hate it when I’d have to wake up to your body sprawled all across me. I hated how you’d invade even what little was left of my privacy. But everyday I’d still long for the warmth of your breath against my neck. Everyday I’d still choose your arms over the empty satin sheets wrapped around me.

    They say my hair smelled like the beach. Of coconuts, the salty air and of the ocean we’d talk at length. You would nod in agreement. You would smile politely. But I know you always despised the smell of my hair in entirety. You’d detest even that lone strand which gathered the pluck to gently graze against your skin. You’d distastefully shove it aside as if it were a reminder of a long forgotten enmity.

    I wonder if you knew how strongly I disapproved of your taste in music. You would send me links to your favorite songs and I’d open hoping to find a link to that heart of yours. And I’d wish that sometimes you’d make an attempt to ask me for my playlist. I wish you’d know of the profusion of songs that gently sing my soul to sleep. I wish you’d someday listen to the multitude of melodies that would every night ease my demons to quiet slumber. I wish you’d stop being the sole occupant of my headspace. I wish you were only a temporary tenant, and that certain stains, I could, from my heart, efface.

    Funny how I now ache for a familiar warmth around my body, for a something that could fill the emptiness beside me. Funny how I now feel your hands dive into my long tresses, how you now enjoy the smell of the ocean in my hair.

    Funny how I am now growing to see a hint of beauty even in your taste in music.

    akira || i strongly disapproved of your taste in music

  • ivy_words 148w

    voice notes

    She would remain tight lipped. Like a music box, she would have her lid shut so tight, in wait for hands that cared enough. For the right touch, she would wait. To open up and give in. To shower her listener in the tunes of tales she had long since forgotten. To drench her listener in melodies unheard, in euphonies that had now accumulated dust.

    The same songs and the same series of notes on repeat, but you would never grow tired of her music. Those ancient dusty tracks would still be brimming with her magic. Her midnight blues, marking her very heartbeat, could never possibly wear you out.

    And long after they’d been listened to, you would still beg for them to remain with you. For the fortieth time the same day you would catch her familiar tune on your lips. The same old beats would give rhythm to your worn out feet as they plod across those weary paths.

    Your ears would yearn, your heart would bleed as you once again traverse her forlorn poetry, along her cracks of timeless ageing. Her silent cries would turn into a liberating harmony. As you fling wide open the gates to her soul and crash into her most sensitive ground, they will finally find their awaited release.

    And even when her image has faded away, her broken music will remain with you. Even as her embers go damp in the growing mist, she will still remind you of a fire once ablaze. To sing of battles and defeat, wrecks and triumph, she will leave behind her treasured possession.
    Her voice notes she will leave behind to remind you of love, of loss and of ruined cities in darkness. Of beauty in destruction, and of the lovely her, regardless.

    akira || voice notes

  • ivy_words 158w

    I'm tired.

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    This Silence Is Loud, This Darkness Lonely

    Nothing is ever hidden in this silence too loud. Nothing ever masked. Nothing ever sealed.

    This silence is loud,
    Even the quietest whispers turn into piercing sounds.
    Along my sensitive they boldly curve, slithering into old wounds carefully unearthed. Digging open fresh graves, into which they gently swerve, in my ears they sing loud tales of loss and knots long undone. They leave untouched not a single nerve. Of what once was my mind's preserve, they leave a chaotically interwoven mess.

    Nothing is ever hidden in this silence too loud. No words left concealed. No secret left unveiled.
    This silence is loud. This silence, too loud.

    And this darkness? It is so lonely,
    Unlike the light on the other side, it fails to gift me company.

    The light showered me with an abundance of shadows, reminding me of the comforting bosom of an age old willow of suns and stars and everything bright and beautiful.
    But this darkness has me lonely even in the presence of a multitude of my demons. They thrive on my darkness. They live off this blackness. They rake and maul at what is left of my soul. They gnaw at my chest's already bleeding holes.

    And this darkness? It is so lonely. My shadows, my only comrades, fade into nothingness, slowly.

    This silence is loud.
    This darkness, lonely.

    Ivy || This Silence Is Loud, This Darkness Lonely

  • ivy_words 159w

    Hello? :)

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    You Wouldn't Know

    And behind these closed doors, I cry. I howl in pain. I cry. I'm asked to maintain the silence. So quietly, I weep. Noiselessly, I cry. Beneath these veils, behind these walls, tears incessantly run and then they dry.

    But you wouldn't know, would you?
    You don't know. You never do.

    Under my muffled sobs, I feel my body shake. The persistent agony leaves a familiar dull ache. It's funny how I can hear the silent shattering. It's funny how I can hear myself break. It's funny how I watch as my little castles fall apart, homes that took forever to make.

    But you wouldn't know, would you?
    You don't know. You never do.

    For beneath this clutter of unsaid words, I hide an entire story unwritten. Beyond my muddle of unheard melodies, lie ears that never tried to find the patience to listen.

    And under these ruins of long forgotten windows, lay a pair of eyes that once bore every colour under the sun; a pair of eyes, that now lay draped in sombre shades of ashes and smoke, weeping tales of knots slowly undone.

    But you wouldn't know, would you?
    You never did. You never would.

    Ivy || You Wouldn't Know

  • ivy_words 166w

    Heyya lovely people!

    I had intended to do this a lot earlier, but then again I never do what I want to do or ought to do.
    I'm going to have to take a break from Mirakee.
    A month, maybe two, maybe more. I really don't know. But I do hope to be back soon.
    I do hope to be back.

    And now, I'll just say thank you.
    Will that do?


    Read More


  • ivy_words 166w

    He left.
    No goodbyes. No regrets.
    He just left.
    Did I cry? I don't remember.
    Do I miss him? I still don't know.

    Fiction. Fiction. Fiction.
    Do I miss him? You ask.
    I do, I say.
    I miss him. Whoever he is.
    Ah why does this hurt?
    *again, don't mind me*

    Read More

    No Goodbyes, No Regrets

    And then he left. It was three days after I last talked to him. He left. No goodbyes. No regrets. He just left.

    I didn't go to see him. No. I couldn't bear even the thought of seeing him. I couldn't bear to see the face that once held all the colours of my world, wan and pale. I couldn't possibly watch as the arms that could, in less than a moment, fill my insides with warmth, slowly recede to the cold darkness.

    Or maybe it would still remain bright and rosy like it always did. It was him. You never know. But I couldn't take the risk. I wanted his image to be etched in my heart in all its radiance and cheer. I wanted no grey to streak the purity of my picture of him. No distortions, no corrections. I wanted to remember him as a jovial soul. The happiest I've ever met. My little impossible eternity. My little unfulfilled dream.

    And no, I didn't cry. To my surprise and everybody else's, I didn't. They called me strong. I don't know. I don't think it was strength. I think it was a certain numbness. I had prepared myself for this.

    I remember those last moments. They're burnt in the back of my mind. We sat in silence. Neither of us said a word. I savoured the quiet, trying to memorize his scent. He said something then. I remember. But I don't remember what. I regret not paying attention. But then I'd been too occupied with the calm of his voice. I listened. I did. But I didn't hear what he said. I have wrecked my little mind over the past few days but I can't recall his words. And now in its ruins I'm afraid my head may forget what it had memorized. It's terrifying. The possibilities. It is terrifying.

    What if I forget his soothing scent? What if the melodies of his voice are erased from the pages of my soul? What if the curve of his lips when he smiles, I don't remember anymore? What if my brain misplaces the image of his nervous grin that I've always adored? I fear for my weak mind and its poor memory.

    It must be so hard, they say.
    Do I miss him? They ask.
    Do I miss him? I ask.
    I don't know. I don't know anymore.
    There are days when I would stop in the middle of the street and emptily stare at my shadow and find something missing. It'd feel as though it was incomplete. I would imagine a taller figure right next to it, leaning in, our hands entangled, hearts crossed. Ah better. So much better. It would feel good. Somewhat. Somewhat better.
    Do I miss him? I still don't know.

    I've always had an uncomfortable relationship with my hand. I would never know what to do with them. Do I fold them over my chest while I walk? Or do I just let them loose? Or do I place them in my pocket? I still don't know. But with him around I didn't have to worry my head about it.
    Do I miss him? You ask.
    I don't know, I say.
    But I know my hands do ache for the presence of his, filling into their little voids so tenderly. They miss the warmth of his calloused yet gentle skin against the bare cover on their own.

    I stared into his face that day. He watched me as I did. It was funny how we're both so voluble, yet neither of us found the need for a conversation that day. He rose from his seat and walked towards me. His towering figure hunched down a little and placed a soft kiss on my forehead. I closed my eyes, breathing in his scent once again, writing onto my mind the texture of his lips.

    I went home that day with a storm of emotions. I locked myself in my room. And then I cried. I cried my eyes out. I screamed into those lonely pillows the whole night.
    And then I cried again the next day.
    And the next.
    And then the next.

    The call came three days after I last saw his face. The call I had been dreading. The inevitable end I had been anxiously putting away. I didn't cry. It felt as though there were no tears left in my little body.

    What would have otherwise been a lovely Sunday morning was downcast with the darkest clouds as the skies poured down.
    Ah that little saying, you know? Even the skies cry, when good people die.

    I couldn't watch as they contained the expanse of his world into a small hole in the ground. He had been claustrophobic. Did they know that? He wasn't one to be shut into a room. He told me he hated it. How will he survive in that little box, then? I wondered. Maybe it doesn't matter in death, does it? Maybe it doesn't.

    And then he left.
    No goodbyes. No regrets.
    He just left.

    Do I miss him? You ask.
    I don't know. I still don't know.
    It's been seven days since he's gone. Today, my eyes welled up as I played those record tapes. I had meant to use them later but I couldn't take the deafening silence of his absence. That familiar old deep steady voice filled my ears. Every substance of my body readily absorbed the sound that had always been its healing potion. He was singing his favourite song, that had grown to become my favourite as well.

    Today, for the first time, in seven days, my eyes released a tear. It rolled down my face and evaporated as it touched my cheeks. And then the dam broke down and soaked through my shirt. I shuddered at the unwonted cold. My heart longed for those warm fingers to graze my chin as he whispers into my ears, sweet nothings.
    Every breath that I take hurts.
    Every sound that escapes my lips chokes on my being.

    You still ask if I miss him?
    I don't know, I'll say.
    I'll say, I still don't know.

    Ivy || No Goodbyes, No Regrets

  • ivy_words 166w

    She said, where'd you wanna go?
    How much you wanna risk?
    I'm not looking for somebody
    With some superhuman gifts
    Some superhero
    Some fairytale bliss
    Just something I can turn to
    Somebody I can miss.

    The Chainsmokers, Coldplay || Something Just Like This

    I don't wish for this.
    Dominic, is it you?
    Or maybe it is David.
    *please don't mind me.*

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    Somebody I Can Miss

    I don't ask for love. I don't find its need. Call me weird. But no, I still don't ask for love.
    There are certain days, though, when I don't want to feel complete. Days when I wish I felt the emptiness people claimed to feel. Days when I would wish I had somebody I can miss.

    Days when the heavens pour down and I'm locked in the uncomfortable warmth of the house, I unknowingly yearn for a familiar touch. My arms flail for just another warm hand to hold. My heart unconsciously aches for the presence of another familiar soul.

    And almost everyday I wish I could burn. Burn in the fire of silent longing. I wish my heart would be sore. I wish it would bleed rivers in memory of a someone. I wish it would wish to cry in somebody's absence. I wish I had somebody I can miss.

    Then some days I wish I had memories I could replay. Letters, cards, fading photographs, I wish for them too. I would want to feel a throb. A sting. And my eyes would water at the sight of all those little moments. Ah yes. I wish for the tears as well.

    There are those days when there's a void in my chest. A void that can be filled only by pain.
    Yes, a void that wants to be filled only by pain.
    But I can only wish.
    I can only wish for somebody.
    Somebody I can miss.

    Ivy || Somebody I Can Miss