We stumble inside the library , to find new chunks of fiction because reality, my friend , isn't something people willingly choose . You kiss me furiously and the hardbound Crime and Punishment , rattles on the shelf above . Dostoevsky is watching the lust fueled , mad passionate , love . Love that burns so hard one moment it sears your palm , and fades in shadowy smoke the next . The edges of world are grey and blurry , windows don't do justice to the intensity of rain . You look at me and sketch a galaxy on my throat with your eyes . Brownstone eyes . What do you want to read , lover ? Something grave and dry and horrifying you say . How about past ? But you can't read that , because poets like you and me , we don't read what we made ourselves , it feels like pressing a tender bruise again just to feel the lick of pain . So for now , settle on Hemingway , why don't you . And when the rain ends , kiss me again under Pride and Prejudice this time , and feed me lies , delicious lies , about how love is eternal . Would you ?
This time , my heart has tripped out from my chest and found home in a stranger's palm . He squeezes it and tries to soak it in holy water , to make it new again . But it has cracks , endless cracks , nasty nightmarish stains . Stranger , you look like you know the difference between experience and mistakes ; love and infatuation and things that always confuse me . Tell me stranger , have you found love yet ? You tell me my eyes hold secrets and are deep , my palms have creases made of silk fibers , voice dripping with stardust and I look familiar to you . Do I ? I have always held more than seven colours on my canvases , always more than 26 letters in my poems and I've held more than one funeral for every chunk of myself I lost to the void at 5 am's . Are you one of those colours ? Letters or Chunks ? Do you also write poems about unrequited love and let the world believe you're just a poet , and inhale soot when you're alone ? No , You look like solid madness . You talk about things you like with such raging passion , I want to dip my hands in blood and place them on your bare heart . But If I tell you , my eyes are just pale marbles , and the creases on my palms are made with precision of haunted knives , my voice a whisper of your scared subconscious and I look familiar because I broke you heart once , Tell me stranger , would I still look like a muse to you ?
The war is over . Lost . I am a residual of your subconscious . Blurry , smudged , lurking in the shallow passages of your medulla . Wandering around the heavy knot of sane threads on the edge of snapping.
Snapping , Snapping .
I live in a two story house with familiar-strangers and a skin , a mold of what is me . A hollow cylinder . Slythering through the doors , voices boom laughing , bonding , smiling . Blameworthy promises and sharp edges tracing the veins on my forearm , Lace collars looping around my throat cutting the flow of life . I pretend the world is good and keep laughing .
Laughing , Laughing .
Bare feet , Vast nakedness . I have a marble statue of a naked girl , her teeth perfectly aligned in a smile and her eyes flickering through the stone . There's a replica of the statue too , only living , breathing , and shuddering . Blood-stained teeth clapping together . Images go off in my head like a broken camera reel . Blurry , out of focus images , and I try to look for anyone dying in the background .
Dying , Dying .
The facade of sunshine is too strong . You can't look beyond the halo , or find the nucleus of all the saturated venom and grief . You'll be blinded by the lights , You'll be thrown in a tailspin , with no boundaries , only Shadowy clouds of your own demons enveloping you , and you'll be spinning with no end in sight .
Spinning , Spinning .
Touch the soft skin of my shoulder , with your hands , with your lips . But don't gasp at the ridges , don't feel the slices . Don't come in contact with the graveyard separated from you by just a layer of skin . Touch , savour , smile , throw . You'll find me licking the cuts on my jugular , with my own salty tongue , lapping the crimson trail up .
Love , for you and from you tastes like champagne and stale kisses . And I have no choice but to put on the black dress that reeks of nightmares and memories and wear sharp red lipstick to make up for the lack of blood on my teeth that day , and saunter over to you with a stare that has all the warmth of a December night .
The club chokes on hip hop and jazz and the tables have men , with shining wedding bands on their hands caressing the curves of someone their wives gossips about .
I meet your gaze and find a void just identical to mine inside those eyes . The smile all bright but the stare all liquid shadows .
We move against each other slick with sweat and the sickly stench of fake whisperings , You trace the name of your lost love on my collarbones and I moan the syllables of a name too painful to remember , between your shoulders ! We move together to the cliff , fall , and surface back , only to again shove ourselves in the harsh kisses , the kind that don't make your heart fuzzy but hold a promise to tear it further apart . Taking , not giving . Demanding . Everything and more !
We pant againt each other and you don't help me get dressed , I stare at the bloody trails on your shoulders marking you and I know they will remind you of me tomorrow , a black clothed nightmare , with no intention to form coherent thoughts . and you'll forget me after a couple hours .
Love demands ties , and neither of us has any length of our rope left to offer . So I leave while listening to the beat thumping out from the club , Radiohead yells "You've changed the lock three times , he still comes reeling through the door !"
- Ruhii .
At this point I'm writing without any conscious thought and you can evidently see that .
Undying and rotting cliché love keeps reeking in my backyard and you come like a zephyr holding the smell of beaches and cherry blossoms . I try to figure you out but you just keep shedding layers after layers and barely letting me touch the core . Are you the saturated sunshine in a vodka glass ; or are you the painting made by a drunk and fading artist ?
Through all the shabby coffee shops , old bookstores , lost movie theatres and crimson wine stains , you float and promise to be by my side , not hold , not leave , just be by my side and witness all my sins and regrets , everytime I fall in and out of love and all the times when I try to let go of things but just can't . I just need to know that you are , there tucked in somewhere , watching all my shaky steps and dangling breaths .
And everytime somebody says that you absolutely have to be in love with somebody to be in their poems , my subconscious yells that they're lying ; you can just be a petal in their whole bunch of lilies , or just a pearl in a whole shining string , you don't need to be in love to love someone . Unsaid things more often than not , find their way on their own .
Right after I break down and lose all the faith in existence , you emerge from some hidden vault buried deep inside and make me believe again that things can be scarred , jarred , but still remain beautiful , you remind me that there has to be a crack to let light in . You're the ninth espresso shot of the day , bitter but lovely , necessary to be sane and sound .
Slowly losing appetite for love and Beauty , I write bleeding and torn poems , with evil spilling out and cynicism filled upto the brim , but you take them all in and tell me that a whole black lump of life can be beautiful too , and I believe you, I always do, like your words are the force dragging me to life . I have never learnt how to trust , but with you , all I know is blind faith .
Hiding all my insecurities amidst the poems I pen , I try to figure out how not to be a melancholic hue and make you happy the same way you make me . But you're just too intense and complex and I've never learnt how to deal with words , I can knead a thousand words to make you feel what I think , but I'll never be as good as you and maybe I would never explain what you mean . Just stay .
- Ruhii .
I wrote this a year ago when I was still capable of writing paragraphs after paragraphs about cliché things like love . I don't do that anymore but here it is !
They say they're looking out for me . Why do i feel strangled ? I should smile , laugh , jump . bond , hug , love . I do . I do all of these , but do I ? Shallow breathes mark their way through the episodes of looking after . My skin tingles and spiders of uncertainty crawl over during the bonding part . No , the neck scar isn't visible anymore , but what about the scars carved on my frontal lobe ? What about the marred soul ? Does it heal ? I wouldn't know . Never got a chance to let them rest before another blow , another strike , another cut , another slash , comes hurling , just deepening them . Dinner is supposed to be the time for seasoning love over the stale meal of care and comfort . Too bad I only feed on salty nightmares and sweaty sheets and the gaping fear that pounds in my ear in sync with the footsteps around me . Would I get out ? Ever ? I shrink in my mattress and suddenly remember im not supposed to wrinkle the sheets . But the fall has happened , Im whirling , drowning , and I can't find the end neither the boundaries , maybe there aren't any , or maybe they just run further away . I keep getting sucked . But I'll emerge again , for doing this all again on a brand new day . Holding on for tonight is all about now .
Sunshine boy ! The world's not so sunshiny , always . Too bad you don't get to see the bright lights spilling everyday ! Come here , see the blood clotting , rotting , smelling , dried blood . You feel hurt ? Good . Lick the soot off the floor , cram your mouth with doubts and questions . See , See the sanity slowly dissolve in me . Drink it up in hopes to fill yourself with some of it and then scream Scream like you're getting butchered alive , when it doesn't work .
Oh Sunshine Boy ! You need something calm ? I have calamities wrapped in my knuckles . Come play with them . See the watery shadows and dripping fear ! Poke a hole in your subconscious and see it turn into something fragile , brittle . This is a crazy smelly gymnasium , time to score . And don't flinch when I whisper to you , " I am a flatworm , stepped upon but still a parasite ."
Don't fall in love with me. I'll come like a wrecking ball in your life full of orderly chaos and leave nightmarish stains on your bright sheets . I'll forget my name in hopes to remember yours for the rest of my life and then die just for the sake of uttering it breathlessly for one last time . . Round stains of coffee mugs will make home in my usually torn poetries and I'll trace the crimson trail of my being left behind while my vision clogs with cigarette smoke . I'll scream your name one moment for the world to hear it and whisper it the next so that I can keep you a secret , safe from my demons . I'll put a piece of you in all the characters from every book I love , so that when I read them again , I can taste the blood on my tongue and Alas ! It'd be mine this time . You can hold me tight between your knuckles but I'll still slip through just because I like you breathing fire after me . You can write poetries about me and I'll just burn them to ashes and inhale them and then tell you I don't smell smoke . My body is full of all things bitter , all things terrible , no blood , just liquid black tar and I'll tell you metaphors about how it represents the midnight sky . Rain will come knocking at my windowpane and I'll tell you about how the world looks like an ashtray , the soft soggy grayness blurring the edges of the world and making it a little more pathetic . . I'll kiss your moles and tell you they are the galaxies in this mundane world , having a new world tucked inside this ordinary one . I'll read you love poetries when you're burning in hell . I'll give you so much of my own light ; you'll forget you're being blinded . So , do not fall in love with me . Even when I'm begging you to .
I forgot for a while what writing feels like and today I felt a trail of fire leaving my hands and tasted copper in the back of my throat .
On days like these when the sky looks clenched ; like it's trying to hold back what's inside and not break open in front of those who always admire its beauty through camera lenses and naked eyes ; My mom looks out of the kitchen window while she manages to make three different types of tea for three different people in my home and just stands there thinking something .
What ? I wonder Does she remember the first night after she was married ? The new hopes and dreams weaved in red silk threads painted with sweet smelling vermilion and clinking in golden bangles ? Or the feeling of my feet inside her abdomen the joy of brining a new life in this doomed world ?
The last words of my grandma as she died in her arms or the first words of my sister when she smiled a toothless smile ? The nights when dad came after drowning all his worries in a bottle of brown liquor Or the mornings when she found broken china in the hallway ?
I guess she remembers all the times when she was a little girl with emerald eyes and long mahogany hair making crowns of dandelions and looking out of the window as she hoped ; one day she'll live like the Austen characters .
Now she stands here ; a smile always plastered on her still beautiful face ; but her mind lost looking out of the kitchen window stirring the tealeaves ; living Plath .
as I stand in the doorway and feel like looking into a mirror .
I was going for a higher level of cynicism , but this has to do since the purpose is just marking my existence .
Originally posted on 27.03.2020 and reposting on 27.03.2021
Years changed. But the pandemic didn't. I had these thoughts in my mind at the beginning of pandemic. Again, there's a rapid increase of covid cases in my city and I couldn't stop pondering about the question in my poem. Will I ever get an answer?
Longing for someone is a painful yet beautiful thing. His longing for her Her longing for him His longing for him Her longing for her.
I wear longing for you on my skin and poetry starts building its home there. The more my skin looks dead, the more the poems braid themselves on the faded love bites you left near my collarbone. Do you too long for me the way I long for you?
Love and longing are ancient soulmates, I feel so. The road ahead is long, I move two steps further and my eyes start searching for you. But I can only see the songs you left behind, the sighs took before saying goodbyes and the half-built home sitting by my side. Do your feet fumble too when you find me no more there, smiling at you and being my kiddish self?
You were the calm sky and I was the reckless bird trying to fly beyond the limits. But we will meet again, the day your infinity and my limits would think of locking eyes again.
"for you a thousand times over," i said without wasting a breath. it was a time when love smelt like you; forever was not just another lie; when my eyes mumbled your name-closed or open. the streets were brighterand drowning along with you seemed the only right thing to do. my diary choked with romance over the gaps i leave for the punctuations hanging down the room. "call me by your name and i'll call you by mine," you said. and my heart shifts to that line over and over again, replaying your lips twitching over the corners to a smirk, your skin gleaming from sweat, hands locked in mine... the way we chased the moonlight, with your fingers lacing my imperfect bun. you said, we were the fireflies glowing from the muddy mountains of hatred. handed me letters with a pink envelope which still has the perfect curves on it.