In another world, I will write a poetry that will not be about pain, grief, sadness or death.
A poem where spaces between words didn't look like graveyards of emotions. A poem whose belly is filled with butterflies and pixie dust and not with every kind of ache. A poem whose arms engulfed every sinner and painted each of their sin as a beautiful Metaphor.
Someday I will write a poem with a face remotely resembling happiness. A face for which Picasso was resurrected from his deep sleep.
As I was growing up the stories I heard about love started getting strange.
I always felt love was a sense of comfort, like meeting a stranger on a foreign land who speaks your native language with utter fluency. But what I never knew was, when my story will reach its climax, its inevitable end, I will forget how to communicate, making me forever mute and vacuous.
I thought I knew how to narrate happiness and love in eleven languages. As I grew up I recited sadness in eleven different eulogies on the grave of love.
They told me love always comes dressed in the cloak of relief and solace, like downpour that soothes your bruises and cracks on a warm day.
I am still waiting for this incessant rain filled with unending rage and ruins of a distant past to stop. This downpour of love just didn't know how to use punctuations, when to stop, when to start.
The world offered itself as a home to him, full of imagination and liberty.
Michael tried to build a happy home there, ignoring the fake prejudice, bigotry and narrow mindedness.
He was always told, moon and stars are supposed to be together, Moon and sea were just a mere acquaintance. That X loving Y is normal, X adoring X is a sin. That if the moon starts loving the sea, this world, his 'home' will wreak havoc.
That his normal is NOT NORMAL.
Micheal again tried to build a happy home in the embers of doubt with walls painted in colors of " Is it me? " " Is it a disease? " " Is it just an illusion? " with his porcelain hands joined, with silent tremors and screams of prayers to God to fix him.
Michael tried. Numerous times. But was marred and stifled as the world 'his home' gazed at him with total contempt.
I always had this perception that the best way to end any poetry was grief and death, that the metaphors hiding behind those soft coloured flowers on grave just exhibited remorse and regret, those eulogies on funerals were just a poetic lie and the unfinished poetry lying dead on the casket was just an adjective of ache.
A nostalgic longing to hold a chunk of lost time ushered whispers into long hours of loud love. Our blameworthy broken promises of an evening out, forlorn anniversaries and flirtatious glances of infidelity thrown for granted were caught and brushed off for a silent midday falling apart. When you grow tired of falling back to save love, grief files your tongue, storms don't stop you from slamming the door shut and barging out and darkness seldom feels like another erratic expression poets ink in metaphors. Forgetting to swim in the waters you've made oceans from drowned me in a myriad of night terrors.
Bridges collapsed, armies fell, the sky turned crimson purple as nightcrawlers dragged away whisperers into suicide forests where death was the least agonizing torture. I hastened into open ranches, snowy terrains and into the arms of wildfires, brushing off nature's wrath and stumbling closer into hell's jaws. They found me shivering, bleeding, rotting and hanging on to my last breaths in a jet black sea cave pleasing my stomach growls with half handfuls of salt and rock dirt. I was forced to embrace the mayhem under the daylight, I sat through it days and nights, I suffered through it for long hours faking an assuring smile and nodding as a response to stick figures donning teal and white. They let me go into the world, plastic cuboid shapes commanded a herd of insanity doped leaches to feed off on each other's blood. All it would take is a perfect slit, ear to ear, right across the neck to completely silence them and feel nothing at all for one last time. The thought just ran in circles in my clustered mind, knocking down the focal points of tolerance and restraint.
Stitches across my neck, hands and legs strapped to a wooden chair, weights dangling over my shoulders and nail holes adorned my feet under a white light as he walked up to me with a notepad in hand and a bored look dancing on his wrinkles.
Do you want to live? Do I look like I do? Do you want to die? Do you need to ask?
My whimpers were his answers, answers he didn't take to his heart, he scribbled on a piece of paper and handed it to them. They took me to the streets, jolted me around town, clawed my chest and shoved pills down my throat.
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 light flickered dully in his one bedroom apartment as a sweat drenched Diego Alvarez ripped open the contents of his mailbox.
So, now you know. In the halls, they are going to be talking about nothing but this. For weeks. The media is going to have a field day crucifying me and Johann.
But you know what? None of that matters. Not anymore. This is meant to be an apology after all. I wish I could say I was sorry and mean it, but I promised myself I would be truthful to you in this letter at least.
This was always a game between us and Sophie and you just happened to get caught in the crossfire. Don't come looking for us. The agency taught us well in that regard, and you won't find us unless we decide to show up on our own.
You remember I told you about a moral compass? Most of us, we walk through those doors with dreams in our eyes. And the agency takes and takes, until all that is left is a darkness hollower than any death.
Someday, the agency will strip the light from your soul as well. I hope you can walk away before that moment comes.
But today, when you walk, the bridge buckles under the weight of your bare toes. A part of you is shaking, the part that no one sees. You struggle with the thought that you need to be someone else. That you must change yourself subtly so that the whispers stop.
Sometimes you think that this is a choice. This transformation, metamorphosis. But truth be told, the part of you that has never yet lied tells you that it isn't. A part of you is tired of simply surviving, each day a carbon copy of the one before. You begin to wonder what it is like to live.
All these shadows that you chase with such desperation lead back to the same despair. You struggle to recognize the face caught in the crossfire, the gait in the mirror. The person you once were, the person you still are. And the person you no longer want to be.
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.