putting the tracks i liked
out there, on my stories
hoping, wondering,
maybe they'd see me for how i dream
and not for how i've been coping

except a step further
a path up ahead
i realized, they didn't really care for all that i had
prized possessions of mine, these lyrics so simple
they don't deserve bits of me, if the surface excites them sole
if they don't like it whole, not worth the lengths i go

a girl's room is her own museum
or so they said
mine's a beautiful chaos
trust me, a letter to self

and so i stopped
a step further even
ahead i moved
watched, smiled, told them they had all i could
share without breaking, without giving them the key
that could threaten my volatility—my being
and i hoped they'd accept

except fools require everything whole
even if they can't accept it, they need it only
for the pleasure it brings, the joy of knowing
not to like, to love—but to show—
the world always required proving

i have my own cocoon
won't term myself ready to bloom
or a butterfly for that case
but i hide, intending to forget the world
my room, the paradoxical mapping
the stars chart their own course during the nights
up on my ceiling as i turn the lamp and let it burn bright
it's simple, heady space
there's posters and pictures on one wall
the other holds a heart collage of all sorts
lomographic detailing, i've always found myself dreaming
one picture, and i tend to stare deep
whenever this head gets too loud, i sit and stare at all of the meanings

there's a magnitude that hides
read every picture, uncover—but it comes with a price
safe spaces, meant to be kept hidden
posters—the movies that stayed, the artists looking back at me
quotes, written in an unhinged manner
my favourite, i'm yet to choose
but it all kind of gives away what i can't hammer
across my skull and at myself every time i go out
i wish to carry it all, to show them what i'm all about

don't try to rewrite my scars
just don't add any new ones to the already existing
and you could wrap a bandage
i'll keep all the rough edges sealed
and edited for flow

there's carts—more like shelves weakened with a multitude of books
i counted them, turned out to be a lucky 151
now i wonder which i ought to read
to throw caution to the wind and forget all my seams

there's stands, holding tiny little things
a layer of all my bracelets, of all that i intend to wear
one with the skincare, and other little prizes i just keep
there's pens, a vast multitude—I could never have enough
in all colors, i think half of them already dried up
a couple things for journaling stay at the very back, at the very bottom
right above, it holds all the things i could use to paint—to bring my dreams to mortal realm
except the skills lack, i tend to procrastinate
so they stay, gathering dust—unless i air it out—once a day
every day

the last compartment holds a stack of pencils, a glass quill—intended for magic
couple washi tapes—perhaps i'll wrap them around my wrists
and a few paper cutters, having gathered rust from being washed—every time i stuttered

a red ribbon, and a golden one, tied around both my shelves—reminding of who brought them to
vines hang in one corner, right beside the balcony
i'm yet to minecraft the windows, perhaps i'll let them be
there's pages stuck to the walls, and a multitude of sketches
nothing all too special—but there's this one of an eye that speaks
couple stars, the phases of the moons—waning and waxing,
full one too!
a paper leaf string—maple leaf except i made little hearts
hangs over the bathroom door—completely out of place, held in a purple thread
the pages wall is of a comfy book—before the coffee gets cold
the curtains are a shade of violet and silver in the middle, indication of what couldn't have been told
silver almost looks like a grey, a bit shiny, a bit neutral
but then there's another book stand and it holds a few candles
hardcovers at the bottom, they hold too much weight
the paperbacks balance the top however
and wrapping its corners is a string light—a heavy mistake
it goes over my wardrobe
multitude of tiny bulbs if i were to turn it on
phases of the moon again, cut out
and beneath—like scribbles on a notebook—stuck album covers in tiny, varying shades

a sign that says smile—i can't say i do
but it stares back at me, every time i sit on my bed—so i try to
a blue ribbon bow—gifted, i remember just who
stuck to the handle bar, i grip it every time i pull the door through

my desk is a messy messy affair
to put a name to things would be like listing down what i couldn't bear
but here it goes—
my laptop, the one i barely use—it's new
yet to find my way through, i rely on the old one
tho it's been barely working
comfort i guess—is one step away from despair

fake purple tulips, standing in a lilac bottle that i'd painted
a pastel of the same shade except it's an hourglass
30 minutes, i'm yet to check if it lives up to its truth
three scrapbooks, incomplete, the kits emptied halfway through
a candle, a chalkboard, tiny—a slate of all sorts
with one side a black, the other a white
i tend to use it black over white

a clock, stuck on the wrong time, currently giving 11:11
some wisterias kept in a green plastic vase
and a succulent that's as real as it gets
i water it every now and then, the bubbles breathing a sign of life in the room
there's a bunny enchanted almost in a glass sphere—a lamp i don't turn on
a shell, one you'd find at the edge of a sea—except it's a gift too
sets of little trinkets i opened in kinder joy
pen stands holding my sketch pencils that i rarely use
my keyboard is a heavy affair
doesn't really fit in the room with its peachy aesthetic
it seeks repair

a bowl, huge ceramic one i'm yet to find the perfect place for
it carries several stones, i think i'd use them someday to break a skull or two
kidding—
the wall above—black and white, epiphanies printed on pictures
"human being"
"anxious person"
"creative block", "parental advisories"
"life of an artist", a quote between viktor & jayce  and big moon

a wall hanging on the wall, carries a humidifier i don't use
the three figurines of harry, hermione and ron from the wizarding world
the second ron hides just behind the three
a kuromi sits atop a small tin, holding bracelets that specifically need no calling

there's a couple fake plants, sure
books everywhere—on my bed
a set of few that i personally cherish
a dictionary of dreams, a history of time, grimms' tales and a comfort book to carry
it all together

my current read, a lighter for some reason, a diary i write poetry in
and a notebook to remind me why i do it all
add to it- a pen in white, one in blue
a highlighter just to mark the lines i already knew

oh the plushies!
a penguin, a bunny, a koala, a seal
an octo changing moods, a slytherin pillow, and a kuromi
a strawberry hiding a bunny again, and teddy—ages old from when i was a child
three pillows, and two comforters, i think i might get a weighted blanket
the grip feels familiar

there's a tapestry, right above my bed—i tend to forget its existence
since i'm always facing away
the sun and the moon, staring at each other
and a couple random trinkets that define me
don't ask of my drawers, or in between my books
my cupboard, or my wardrobe
i'll mention downturned black butterflies, a cloud with a storm symbol
a party mask, and a phone charm hanging off a circle
a small stool holding japanese authors' best works
a snowflake candle and a few marbles

it's all my own
sacred, hidden
drapery of the lights—different moods, different nights
why i wonder i hide, or spend so much of my time
but it's a galaxy here within
like in my eyes and in my being—whole

my brain resets, works to a rhythm—on nice days
i tend to keep the balcony open and wind flows
everything whispers and takes a breath of relief
the rain pours outside, as i sit and speak
little secrets to my walls
lying on my bed or sitting at my desk
wondering, circling—the reasons to live

the grandest—my baby bunny
wondering, sleeping, napping away or speaking
she stays with me
her own space, her own world a part of my own
we've got an ecosystem in here
the most prized possession

and every time i step
i carry this armor
laced with all the time i spent in this room
gathering strength, putting a piece anew
even if you're not it—
would you like to come see my room?

why'd i let the outsides visit and steal it solely
to murmur of how it all seems obnoxious
it's bits of me, pasted, put together
clumsy, messy, chaotic
i'm quite a few issues when you hear
so close your eyes, listen to my speaker
as i play the playlists i've kept hidden
tonight's the turn for prologue by cloud koh
and if you haven't even tried to read mine
how can i let you read the story directly just for show?

pain’s funny.
laughs a humorless laugh, entering through the doorway
without a knock, without ringing the bell—
a familiar visitor in the hotel of myself.

it has learned my name,
learned where it ought to reside.
easy for it to slip in, even undisguised.

i welcome it, however.
often, i bring it over to a pedestal:
period cramps causing knots in my stomach,
getting waxed after a month,
or even falling over and knocking my head against a cupboard.
familiar. honest. raw. unfiltered.

it sits behind my ribcage, a permanent guest.
some days, in my head.
often, in the form of a heavy numb in my chest.

why is it there—
what form, what holiday brought it this time?
the questions remain unanswered.

sometimes it carries a reason.
other times, it’s just to remind me of old memories—
like applying my favourite perfume.

i could create a list,
but it’s hard to remember
when it’s visiting my central library
of all that i carry.

i can’t remember how it began.
like an old friend,
one night i met it in disguise.

thought i could trust.
i let myself flicker.
it changed my defaults.
and i found some plain, old comfort.

perhaps the wrong kind.
perhaps the wrong thing to do—
chasing after something that hurts
or brings it to visit me the same way it used to.

now, however, it resides,
living right behind my eyes.

sometimes, if i look too hard,
i can almost imagine its presence:
dark.
clouding.
a kind of grey.
ready to hold my hand.

having grown up—
a monster turned old friend,
almost a lover.

i wear it like a second skin.
and on days i can’t even drink,
it slips its hand in my own,
brings me up, pushes me to smile,
whispers, you have to pretend.

and i do.
i do.
and i keep doing so.

support of one kind,
accepting me with my own mind.

some days, it feels like metamorphosis almost—
a change of forms.
on some days, as a memory.
other times, as a memento.
like dowry.

never concluding.
doesn’t even let me stay in delusions.

creates imagery so beautiful,
i’m yet to believe it isn’t just me—
dignified, personified as the midnight hour.

i’m no sun, or the moon.
maybe i could be a star?

beauty is in the eye of the beholder
but what if the one to envision it is blind?
i could approach you with a clean slate
i always do—writing things on a white screen—
except the older the ink, the harder for it to be removed.
visions of you in my head—just not anyone could write over.
and if they try—if i hear things again and again—every time,
it's written over and over and over
until i do not have any clean slate for you, any longer.


actions so cheap, the best of ink fails to meet my expectations.
perhaps there are too many,
but what do i do
when you tend to perform in disguise
every time you see someone come around?

i slip in the lows of being unhinged almost,
the gates of emotional purgatory open to welcome me aboard.
it's tiring—i'm drained.
speaking it in metaphor, trying to paint over.
it brings me to wonder:
just how long do i play pretend?

been wrung dry of trust,
perspective from the third person
who stands in the rubble of ghosted flirtations,
half-friendships built on the foundation of lies.
expected nothing,
but the hope still flows—
straight to my river of misery,
now reeking shades of disappointment.
got lesser and lesser,
and now it's barely there.

this is my final letter,
a sigh of resignation—
hopefully the scientific dissection of this feeling that i entertain:
of the almosts,
weird hope-hangovers,
and all the games
that weren't even mine to begin with.

to name it is difficult—
perhaps it's the hope fatigue,
the burn of being ghosted,
or a nostalgia born from detached attachment.
i mourn for things that weren't real.
hungover from fake bonds,
relying on remnants of connections
that echoed in fallouts.

i asked ai—what do i name this feeling?
in my own words, it replied:
choose your favourite color and give it to this burnout.

grey—
in the middle of extremes,
where hope lay on one end,
ache at the other.
the rope stretched thin.
my being glitches—
a breath, every failed text,
trying to match up the vibe.
i feel like i've fallen in between the lines.
i see it, hiding in plain sight,
watching people perform me wrong.
lowest of expectations, ridden lower and low.

fake affection tastes like sour frosting
on a cake that's been left uncovered in the fridge
for way too long.
the outside’s rough, dry—
nevertheless, i take a bite.

there's eerie silence
as i sit at the edge of the windowsill.
numbness lingers.
i pull at the strings.
raw evenings,
i tend to wonder—
write notes, only to surrender.

kindness—they tally manipulation.
flirting, i take as a weapon.
come headfirst—i'm no longer wary.
having given up,
you just add to my list
of why i shouldn't let people carry
me,
or the weight of what i've become.

i don't despise it.
rather, it's a maturity
i ought to carry to a life—
unless i find someone to share this feeling with.

do you feel,
having already expected close to none,
but being handed even lesser—
gift-wrapped in guilt almost—
just please accept it?
expect it the least,
find it dealt in a heist.

even apathy tends to feel violated
when you drag it back to the beginning.
there ought to be a specific hell
for those who tend to exist
and make promises
like they aren't bartering their own.
calling me honest—
with a mouth that lies.
an ache with no name,
a feeling with no gain.

i been known,
been breathing in the sighs—feelings forlorn.
lover girl by laufey plays on my phone,
disappointment of having lost myself
to beliefs that held me strong.

believe,
trust,
exist,
let go.

four friends turned strangers
sitting on the edges of an x.
the centre, i settle upon,
asking what do i name this feeling
that's been born?

how hard is it
to not wear a mask
and change it every time you bask
in a different one’s setting?
a rare emotional creature,
i tend to sit in the foreign setting.

i do not recognize myself.
holding onto things that weren't even present—
this reads like a séance.
funerals held for feelings that needed strengthening,
got tampered with instead,
burnt down to the very bit.

excuse me as i scream in silence.
look at you, with eyes speaking imagery.
build a connection,
hold the other edge of the phone connected to this wire—
one that wouldn't carry any signals.
but i hope you'll still hear
the music that plays this side—
all the unspoken
that i let bleed through my hide.

masks are unrequired.

i've got an inkling—
you do not understand.
and i do not put it in words.
this, like a myth—uncanny and impossible to uncover.

unless i've got a name to put to this emotion,
i shall drain myself of all words, irrespective—
if it's meant with relating,
or with mirth.

you can only add to my reasons
of why it isn't ever worth.

millions of red threads
and yet the one that holds significance
tied around the little finger,
hooking me to you.
the red string theory—
fragile, probably a lie,
but doesn't it make you cherry?
 
glitter on my hands,
i'm no angel but i leave behind what i couldn't mend.
it sparkles, everywhere i hold you close—
skin placid, hissing almost under touch.
throw glances, lips curving to a smile,
you're enchanting, flickering alive.
 
what can i help with?
give away all i breathe,
i'll hand over all my pills,
stop injecting myself with words i can't speak,
pause inflicting pain upon scars that you won't ever seek.
 
dim lightning, darkened horizons,
drugged-up eyes, seeing through the glimmer.
my vision fades every time the needle pierces—
through my skin, i feel it pulsing,
leaving behind the sensation that slowly dulls away everything.
heaven and back, while rotting on the same couch,
i breathe in the smoke, ashes turning grey.
my hair sticks to my skin as i sweat through the blaze.
 
rehab never taught me how to exist.
being so undone, the remedy is sick.
prescriptions changing,
seldom any constants.
syringes filled with all that remains far from legal—
they call them drugs, is love any far behind in evil?
 
the kind of touch that leaves traces once it's gone,
hallucinations scripting out desires and thoughts and scenes that couldn't become.
withdrawal makes me crawl, no cure that could stop this spiral.
once the highs have been lived through,
the crash arrives as an aching breakthrough.
 
i cry in gemstones that rest in the corners of my eyes—
sitting, waiting, you can't detach them.
they strain towards permanence every time i sigh.
 
the back of the cab is filled with the blazing neons,
and it drifts through the street laced in LEDs and glistening homes.
i've got a pink heart vision,
the glasses leaving me to see stars on every face that carries
even the slightest seed of doubt—
anxiety etched to the masses,
they still envision.
 
i despise you've brought me back to this feeling—
the one i ran from, escaped, returned only to attach.
got me doing, fawning, sniffing white powder turning black.
 
my phone screen blips, lightning up,
the name repeating as i listen to the night come alive.
i'm too high, way too high to reply.
i tell you i was sleeping,
forgive me for my disguise.
 
cheap—cheap cheap.
i overdosed the wrong kind.
 
i look down at the bill,
see the name that wasn't meant to stay in the will.
the wrong wrong wrong addiction.
you failed me, cursed me, broke me—
it's my turn to accept this affliction.
 
shouldn't have—should have.
don't regret—all i do is regret.
ended, stopped, relapsed—now it's all red.
the stick in white in between my fingers,
lit at the end, vapour rising to the flimsy night air.
i sit on the sidewalk, watch the vehicles pass—
too dazed to care.

i'll stop existing, leaving no traces.
this shirt doing much less to stop the cold as it caresses my skin,
blankets the wounds, takes away all that i fear.
i shall move, get up, throw away the burnt-out ****,
walk away, the bottoms of my converses heading down the road to nowhere.
 
you won't even bother to map out the path.
i just know,
the cruelty and the false lies have long since encompassed you whole.
see what i am,
but you are way beyond my control.

bare, a beast of all sorts,
the kind, unknown, unnamed,
desire, perhaps, or even the want.

peeling back layers upon layers,
haunting like venom dressed in velvet,
freaky, misdirected, and led upon.

devotion and lust drink from the same glass,
the champagne poured in by the hands that sculpted brass
into silver,
now mistaken for diamond shine
razor sharp, pricking at the slightest touch,
reaching all the way behind to grasp
the thin fiber of reality that separates.

distance barely existing,
trembling hands trying to pull away the curtains
that hide behind the mesh covering the eyes—

like silk over barbed wire,
perfume resembling the stench of blood,
metallic, almost glittering upon a caress.

curling upon the sheets like smoke in a fire grate,
in spirit, in being, in a soul tie so strong,
the red string pulled taut—

circling the fingers, going all the way up the arm,
slithering and coiling like a snake around the neck,
possession lacking in need.

war report disguised as a love note,
signed in lip stain.

warmth where the danger lives,
close to the flames that can destroy whole,
turned into ash, not mere blackened soot—

violet seize amidst grey sample.

rotten, wholly spoilt,
always a dance,
circling around, close—oh so close,
yet so far.

the truth about forever,
which exists in eternity,
for the while the self survives—

cherry-soaked bodies
living below the ransacked lair.
unspoken, the eyes connect,
few faded visions filled with anomalies,

and a step further up ahead.

grip loose, just way too loose,
accept the chances at running,
escaping right after the wisp of contact—

entangled fingers slipping as the light dims,
furthermore, the radio in the very corner
plays the same track from the first ever night—

with or without you,
don’t touch—don’t glance, don’t do.

torn between staying to take away the soul
or leave behind a heart wrapped in a ribbon.

the blackening veins, cinematic mugshot,
before ties around the wrists and eyes up at the skies—

give up—give up—breathe in, let be.

+92, look at me—do you hear it too?
the sound of bells, calling upon all the wanderers,
the bare ones, yet to hold any other.

too generic, exceptionally quiet,
concentric circles of the eyes,
tired of novocaine—

about all that you don’t see,
put the **** away.

solely a white, white lie,
blazing remembral speaks in starlight.

numbing ache around where the fingerprints remain,
tunnel vision, staring right at you,
at the way you move.

the last ticket, the last trip—
no turning back.

dripping cocoa down, round from the ceiling,
the mirrors speaking monstrosity,
reflections sharing a breath—

en route, in the midst of almost,
leaving behind all casualties,

end this trip—
while going down and low,
and back into the graves where we slipped out from.

a book titled the comfort book
carries silver-tongued truths disguised as preachings offering some peace.
turns out reading what's already known
is like seeing the result on paper—
having exclaimed, i won't believe unless it's shown.

can i slip in, as a matter of fact,
the moon is suing me for emotional damage
and all the pressure i've brought upon it, forthwith, with immediate effect?

she left a letter this morning while leaving
to hide in her contrary's presence—
a cease and desist nailed to the door of my self.
she claimed i'd stared too long,
longingly enough she’d started to feel bare,
and seen me stark naked as i whispered my dire lies to the night air.
she felt used. perhaps i committed a crime.
so i admitted, and asked for apologies.

except i was sent a summon,
to present myself and the plead-not-guilty note.
the stars—she put as the jury,
the night sky her lawyer,
the sun as the judge—he held fury.

i presented myself, humor disguising my truth,
but when they brought the memories to the witness box,
i knew i was done for—eloquently misjudged and overlooked.

had to take an oath,
but they lied under it even.
promised nothing was wrong.
i saw right through their plotting.

i aimed for the time reversing,
pleading guilty, admitting innocence.
my shadow whispered secrets i haven't lived yet—
and they brought her to cross-examine:
no one else but my imaginary friend.

she was mad.
mad for being forgotten and left.

so i did the next best thing:
tore my skin, let her scavenge through the inside.
she felt for the way my veins pulsed,
and admitted i was right.
speaking the truth, your honor,
i smiled at the moon,
but felt guilty for not seeing it sooner.

the universe had glitched—
whenever i cried, it glitched,
sent down a star to wipe my eyes dry.
in doing so, the stars suffered,
and the moon, without her supporters, lost her glimmer.
she lost her friends, as i lost my own.
and no, she wasn’t angry—
just a bit tensed, for she'd seen what happened to my hope.

the lawsuit resulted in me being freed.
i stood up, walked over, and gave her a tight hug—
the trial of chaos, and of giving life to non-existent hope.

she handed me the book of comfort,
written in white on a black page.
it glistened.
the often misplaced truths hide in the bright.
so accept them as you may—
they could be sour, bitter, expired to taste,
but breathing in the venom is one way to make sure
you don’t repeat the same mistakes.

and so this was my tale,
held in the celestial court.
i missed everything—except that i was forlorn, not too long ago.
i still sit at nights and stare at her,
but this time, she lends her own shoulder.
the stars scribble it down:
surrealism meets emotional rundown.

ominous as though it might seem,
this fits like a verdict-stamped
"not guilty" in my very being.

have you heard the cries of angels
as they plead to their kind,
begging to be freed of all the myths
that tie them down to brothels?

systematic anchors of the dark—
they scream until their throat tears apart,
asking to be let out, to be led free,
their body and their minds.
razor-sharp agony running through their veins—
is it gold or is it silver?
is it even blood that runs,
or mere glitter?

their eyes are painted red,
claws sharpened to push off the dread.
they wipe away and break themselves,
shouting to the blind,
always being left behind.

the angels of the nights—
they guard and they protect,
giving and resting, breaks at the harbors,
washing away like they've caught rabies.

maybe it's a society's flaw that they carry:
plastered smiles and pearly teeth.
they gnaw at the necks
of the ones who made them merry.

look what you've done to the divine,
asking to be met with pure versions.
you slid down venom through kisses,
lying in the quiet stillness,
making and breaking promises.

haunting, taunting, daring, breaking—
incredibly, they are
fierce protectors of all the devotees.
preached them, should have.
it's too late to place gifts filled with apologies.

now, if they're after your life,
who shall, but you, complain?
you were warned.
wanted, you've become.
the angels long since died—
now they disguise,
plotting in the depths of your despair.
they'll paint you black and blue,
like you did in their nightmares.

deconstructed the symbolism,
rage-baited all the monsters.
it's the seven sins against one virtue.
feral, i call upon—your turn to plead not guilty.
bask in the unprovided mercy,
for peace from violence lasts only long enough.
soon, you shall meet the ruin—
the unholy, brutal, almost forgiving,
built upon the humane exorcism.

pronouncing beauty, eloquism i've dealt with,
a lit-up candle resembling a snowflake
in the middle of weary summer—
hearth, solitude, and soulmates

have particular habits,
like one i seldom right now:
never get my hair blow-dried
after having cut them down,
knowing i wouldn't go to those lengths again,
or see the styled version—
that's as real as your plains.

wouldn't be there the next day, would they,
when i wake up, a messy bedhead,
stars on my skin, nightmares stained in purpose—
guesses on that somewhere along the ride,
i accepted the chaotic messy half curls
and half waves of my dusted heathery heathens.

learn my language if you must:
private with a public intensity,
burning in paradoxes and flameproof identities.

there's multiple facets of how you live—
decisions, situations, ironies, as you will,
weaponize descent, set trademarked positions.

loathsome evil little creatures,
annoying in proof,
existing by mere chance—
i despise them all through.
but oh, do they deserve love?
perhaps, maybe they do—
from those who speak their words
and listen to them swoon.

deities settled atop the mountain of lies,
dancing in between the lines.
truth is a factor—
those eyes, they lie:
iridescent, accompanied with desires,
breathing vacuum, eating dust,
speaking their shares even as they shy.

spider webs curling upon oneself,
eight-legged creatures grinning at the fresh catch.
fakers faked their own fake selves,
hid secrets of the sacred mess in their chests.

i live for i.
give up, for you shall—
i've some offers to make.
but before, offering some tea—

oh, on the side,
would you like some scones dipped in earth, perhaps?

what an empty epitaph that is—
the art of noticing,
fragility of life.

does iron fear the rot
that overtakes it in the moisture the world provides?

it is what it is,
but does it have to be?

plots of the unknown—how can i thrive?

liminal space of some sort, where i've found myself this once,
and all the other once’s.
i’m still in the spirit,
but the dead don’t return.

can’t find a body—everyone has souls,
not a single empty one.

i have stars on my ceiling.

can you hurt a spirit,
wound it like you’d wound a body?

find me a confessional—
i’d like to admit to my sins.

long since it has felt
like grief lives in the walls of this room where i reside.

you write and you put it out
and it’s like baring yourself in the naked truth
and ugly to everyone outside.
i intend to stay hidden—
in a shirt twice the size of me,
a pair of pajamas i should’ve thrown away a while ago,
and the same damaged pair of glasses—
except they’re light
and they feel mine,
with the same teddy and old laptop.

needed this to be a list of prompts.
found it making sense instead.
my life’s woven this way—
of symphonies, perhaps i’ll leave unsaid.

uncertainty begging for understanding,
faith asking to be relieved.
i can fit into the same years ' worth of old clothes.
have i never really grown, all this while?

i’ll save this to push it down the bin,
choke as every word comes out to spill—
the darkest of secrets, epiphanies of the night.
you breathe in the love,
tend to forget its might.

half-eaten swiss roll, rotting with sour cream.
a modified bunny made out of clay.
purple tulips—
but they’re fake.
i like the color grey.
cherry bombing every lie.
kiss till you’re numb,
dissociate into the wild.

what speaks—and what swallows?
golden halo of the angels,
wings tainted in red,
singing siren sounds,
myths ruled over, unclad.

i broke my old pair of glasses.
they’re beyond repair now.

oh yes, but would you like to see me smile?

i stand above the bathroom sink,
staring in the mirror
under the flickering light over my head.
the dark circles, familiar—
a pair of scissors, one hand twitching,
strands of hair lying in the wash basin.
i chopped my hair in half,
shredded, shaggy layers framing my face.
a smile of freedom, one of acceptance,
the glistening madness in the eyes unsaid.

i stir what once was my skin,
now mere blood—tying myself to this life with an oath,
my ode to swear, to protect and to stay
true to my kin.
cruelty vibing in chaos-kissed violence.
how many times do i shed this skin
until it's not me who remains in the mirror,
and i finally forget my own name?

babies grow old into something brutal—
monsters that walk this place,
sing lullabies to their own preachers.
i've slipped and fallen and i've been left behind,
but the board i'd been playing upon
it turned upside down.
here, the world relies on my head.
i've got the ceiling under my feet,
the skies in my chest.
every ragged breath speaks a tune—
a horror comedy, ransacked, askew.

anew, this curse—
laughing while running through a field,
landmines under my feet.
drapery of melancholy, slips forsaken, hugs me tight.
the curtain of reality—i tear it half.
hands reaching out as claws,
drawing scars on the delusions.
there's beauty in forgiving,
madness in illusion.

once again, again, and again once more.
sixty-one days crossed out on the calendar
that once held way too many promises.
the ladder of failure and of persistence
carries bodies drowning in trying and abstinence.

there isn't any exit in the end.
the broken headphones,
cacophonies of blown-out candles
and half-smushed chocolate cake—
a brief history, periodical, falling,
hell-bent trying to be treacherous,
reaching out to pull the noise from music,
leaving raw voices, hearing them bruise.
archive this, paint the mess, click a picture,
write a note, believe the misplaced faith.
chase that feeling,
run half a mile toward the grim.

oh, but do you see the lights
when you close your eyes?
shattering silence.
the dance of a rugged doll—
i turned her key thrice, and once more.
better to be safe than sorry
amid the growing legions of undeterred regions.
do you hold her or stay near?

tsk, tsk, tsk—sounds of your begging,
faking every emotion, every gathering.
these masks of clay, carved to stone.
pity, pity, pity.
do you even remember who you were before?

empathy is a sin disguised as understanding.
sympathy for the weaklings.
you're playing monogamy,
devour the strength of the flies and the snickers.
tattoo yourself with flames—
let them draw in the scorching heat,
watch them be triggered.

sinners walk this place,
absent, indigenous—
they'll perish soon either way.

proclaim the promises in disguise
of gods for whom you pray.
metamorph into frankensteins,
surrender fascism—
believers of the wrong truths.
mercy shall be provided to you.

i might be the villain.

the bone:

i laid down the framework,
scratched along my skeleton.
bared myself to the very core—
i feel like
i’ve been here before.

someone once asked me what love is.

first things first,
this reminded me of something i’d written a couple years back.

love isn’t always in between people,
or romantic for that cause.
sometimes, it’s as simple as falling in love with the way the rain falls over you,
tipping down your face,
the way you get to breathe in the scent of wet mud—
love can be anything.
different for everyone.
but just the same feeling for each.
(if not similar)

love is what i feel
when i look at people i cherish,
things i like,
things i need,
things i have—
my family,
my friends,
my baby bunny.

i love love.
(i hate it.)

it's so unique… isn’t it?
like magic almost.

how someone can suddenly enter your life
and become such a big part of it,
that to think of them not being here—
beside you—
it’s simply impossible.
either here, or not at all.

it doesn’t make sense
how we can feel this much
for someone.
an animal.
a memory.
a friend.
a lover.

to be honest,
i don’t think love is love
as they show in movies.
hypothetically, even if it were—
i think it'd be a lot less dramatic.

it’s beyond that.

it's holding onto the one you love—
the thing you love—
holding onto the memories you made.
holding onto the feelings you caught
in that one situation,
the visions where you envisioned them in,
the smiles,
the warm floaty feeling within
when you have the one you love,
close to you.

because that’s love—
something pure.
something innocent.
something deep.
something warm.

something alive.

you want to know that it is/they are—with you.
at a distance,
far away,
no matter.
but in terms of feelings
and heart
and bonding—
close by.
close to you.

it’s happiness.
and pain.

ah…
to think of not being in love?
it’s such a crime.

i wish every person in this world
gets to experience it once.
doesn’t matter if heartbreak comes later.
i feel like pain from heartbreak
would be more pure.
raw.
a reminder of a heart
that still beats—
probably for someone else,
something else.

i get the meaning now
behind the words:

my heart beats for you.

to say it,
i think it means
loving someone
just oh-so-much...
that to think of them not being here…
physically hurts.
loving someone so much
that you feel like you’re alive for them.
breathing for them.

and it's toxic.
but it’s magical.

capable of setting you alight,
making you taste
what poison might feel like.

it's insane
how something so psychologically toxic
can be so emotionally divine.
(is love a drug of some kind?)

and to think—
to wish—
for it to happen to me
and everyone alive?

maybe it’s mean of me.
but i guess i can be mean this once.
call me arrogant, call me rude
i curse you with the truest hue
one that love shall pour over you
thank me later, i know you'll do.


if humanity doesn’t know
the depth of love,
what are we even doing?

love isn’t that bookish,
movie-typa thing.
it’s beyond.
different for everyone.

i could be in love
with an animal,
a person,
a thing,
a memory,
anything.

and i love the feeling.
always will.
despite the pain
of losing it.

it’s the circle of life.
and i’m here for it.
alive.
still.



the muscle:

they told me to maintain.
i held the weights,
flexed every part,
endured—
reached here,
and tore myself apart.

wrote the above thing
close to two years back or so,
but reading it—
i’ve missed out on loads
and well—
this piece of text
is as messy as love gets.

now, i write—

love is—
a verb.
an action.

in terms of emotions—
it's an intense feeling
of admiration
you feel towards someone.

for me—
i don’t know.
i’ve never known.
perhaps i won’t—
or perhaps it’ll click
some random day,
i guess—
when i feel that way
about someone?
(do you care?)

but love is also—
care.
it’s friendship.
it’s the world around me.
it’s myself.
it’s you.
it’s everyone around you.
(shh, i'm onto—)

the word is simple.
the meaning—
yeah, well—
it’s complex.

but not complicated
as we make it out to be.
it’s simply complex,
like that one chemical equation
that always seemed scary
until you finally understood it.

seems scary.
but once you fall—
it’s a trust fall.
either you do it
entirely all at once—
or you take a step back.

and that "all at once"
might seem like it’s happening
in steps,
but that’s the complexity of it.

besides—
falling is easy.
maintaining is hard.
staying is hard.

which brings me
to the romantic type of love.
the relationship one.
and that is where i pause…

because to share that too
would be like—
(won't give out my secrets,
what you'll do?)

i'll jot down the keys:
three of them,
that’ll carry forward
any bond that needs maintaining—

effort being the core,
communication being the key,
the way the brain matches,
cognitive,
behavioral,
telepathy way,
and nervous—
won’t go into science—
but psychologically.

let’s just skip over this.


the skin:

surface.
it’s all on the surface.
i’m merely any perfect.

porcelain-like feelings,
perception of all of them—
temporary towards me.
oh,
but will you touch it?

you don't say—i like the rain—
but directly, i love the rain.
never, i like you, directly—
often, i love you.

loving is beyond liking.
you can like something,
you will love it—
but loving can also happen
when you don't like the thing.

liking someone
for the idea of them—
that’s just liking
the view you've built in your head.

but the real person is so much more.
won't find that out
until you talk to them,
until everything between you two
is transparent,
no secrets anymore.

that’s how you know
if you love them or not.

you can like someone,
and then love them.
but you can also love someone
and not like them.

like your family.
like some friendships.

sometimes,
you love first,
and then start to like
the smallest of things they do.
the tiny, silly things
that make them them.

don't try to fit people
into the ideal mold
you've made in your head.
we're falling in love,
not baking cookies.

let them be.
see them for what they are,
not what you want them to be.
(cookies can be decorated,
like love on a human being.)

that’s what we miss.
that’s what makes
humanity feel so hard to find.
(we become bakers,
forget the baseline)

we demand perfectionism.
even in people.
and perfectionism in love—
is impossible.
imperfectly perfect.
you and i, i term it.

you're love.
i'm love.
well made outta love.
(shush, not that way.)

every single one of us is love.
and perhaps it's easy to digest
when you think about it,
poetically— say
love yourself, do you?


the nerves:

pulses and poison—
like the extremes to a function.
chaos. sensitivity.
squelching organs.

synapses i’ve been sending...
here’s the current
that’s been reeling in its wake.


love is care.
love is pain.
it's anger—disguised as unsaid words.
it's the unspoken, undeterred mess of emotions
you feel
when you look at something,
or someone,
and you realize—
you want it.

not in an owning way,
but in a way where you want
to see it / see them
every day you wake.

you want it beside you,
close, in front of you,
the same way—
for the rest of your life
and beyond
(if that even exists).

it's not ***.
not touch.
not kiss.

those are just forms.
you kiss your pet.
you kiss your mother.
you kiss your lover.
three kisses,
three different galaxies—
same name.
kissing.
loving.

loving is
feeling all the positives
and all the negatives.

i guess it's loss.
it's care.
it's anger.
it's pain.
it's hatred.
it's hurt.
it's admiration.
it's hope.
it's happiness.
it's the cloud of anxiety.
it's the fear of losing.
it's the ache of loving too much.
it's—everything.
it is us.

just don’t say i love you
if it’s the same love you feel for the moon,
or the way flowers bloom
in front of your eyes.

don’t say it
unless it has encompassed you whole.
unless you’d want to repeat it till the very end—
in anger,
in resentment,
in between a brawl,
or even when you’re hurting,
feeling everything in all it's might.

in those awful,
quiet moments
when everything feels like too much.

don’t say it—
even though you feel it.

because often,
the i love you that feels like everything
isn’t rooted deep enough
to grow and stay.
the strongest roots—
they spread when you wait.

when you feel those feelings
again and again,
until you realize
you’re not bored of them.
until they’ve become your normal.
the way your heart chooses to beat.

don’t say i love you
if you aren’t ready to commit your life
to the sin
that is called
loving.

and if i say i love you,
that simply means
i may or may not like you—
but i accept you.
and i need you.

not in the way you’d need me,
not the way you'd call it romantic,
not like i need my baby bunny,
not like i need my family—

but in a way
i wouldn’t want to see you go.
i’d want you to stay right here,
beside.
and every day i wake up,
i’d want to see you.
to feel the same exact feelings—
and so much more—
than what i feel
when i say:

"i love you,
stay here, whole."



the whole:

the being
culmination.
philosophical abomination.
quiet truths—
anatomy resulting.

i am,
therefore i live.
i am,
therefore i love.


i’d written about loving
like it’s something that happens.

beautiful.
tainted.
untainted.
unpredictable.
messy.
ra­w.
visceral even.
magical.

it was everything around me,
everything that could be,
everything that was.
and is.
and me.

it was innocent.
it was inevitable.
it was heartbreak.

and then it was anatomy.
if the previous me
termed love as bone—

the bones laid down the structure,
i poured in the muscle,
covered it in skin,
gave it life through nerves,
brought a whole being—
alas, i'd forgotten
there was a shadow—
that it was bound to bring in.

made it a verb, an action.
less ethereal yet mighty,
more grounded, yet aloof,
capable of setting you alight.

at first it was feeling,
now it was becoming.
it was doing.
it was—its meaning.

acceptance.
showing up.
caring.
moving on.
feeling.
letting go.
breathing.
relieving.
crying.
laughing.
drying your own tears.
hugging a friend.
expressing.

not always a sunshine.
not always glittering.
not always melancholy either.
not always a sad ending.
or an ending at all.

it's irony.
it's metaphor.
it's simple.
it's a word.

it's not clean,
it's poetic,
it's real—
tender,
alive.

it's us.
love is us.

it's you.
it's me.
it's everyone around.

living.
wanting.
wanting to live.
living to accept.
to love life.

that's loving.

it's grieving.
it's accepting.
it's needing, requiring
and yet not tying a knot
to keep it close.

can't lock up the favorite flower
in the garden
just 'cause i love it, no?
it'll die for no cause.

this is my anatomy of love.
i present it to you.

all love is,
and all it can be—
and there's much more
that i can't encompass in writing.

but it's everything
and beyond
and nothing at all.

love is—love.
loving.
it's loving.

i love this.

it's evolving.
it's like us.

growing.
learning.
new ways,
new outcomes,
new lives.

it's us.

it's smiling after a touch with death.
it's grieving the loss
of someone who promised to stay forever
but left.

it's promises.
the broken ones,
the completed ones—
the endings,
the not-really-an-endings.

and if you're looking for an ending to this,
it won't.

because love—
will keep going on.

it's love, no?









the shadow:

in disguise, unwelcomed.
deep,
darkest becoming of the negative might.

full body burn—
a copy.
following.
seething.
my closest enemy.

and sometimes
you’ll fall “out” of love—

which is normal.
it’s a phase—
or well, they say so.

that kind of love isn’t the one i’ve talked about above.
for sometimes
we tend to forget
love means staying too—
staying,
not because you have no other choice
but because you want to.

that sometimes
you might feel
the feelings vanished—
that everything you felt
turned into its contrary.
negative,
i.e. hate.

love was—
and has always been—
a natural.
hatred
is the one feeling
we milked out of it,
the wrong way,
for the wrong reasons.

but sometimes
it’s valid too.

these are all paradoxes.

but in a world
of falling in love
only to fall out of it
and move on—

opt to fall in love
for commitment.
to stay—
even if the feelings fade,
perhaps not in the same way
or not at the same levels—
but accepting and allowing yourself to feel
whatever gave it birth
in the first place.

love isn’t always a feeling either.
sometimes,
it’s a decision.
one you have to remake—
daily.
weekly.
monthly.
every second of your life—
even when you feel like the “love” faded.

it won’t always feel good—
but when you feel it,
it’ll be the best thing you’ve ever felt.

though,
a couple things that love isn’t:

it isn’t psychotic.
obsessing.
snatching.
controlling.

it isn’t something that ought to make you go haywire,
make you forget your own life.
it isn’t something that’s meant
to make you want to die.

if you love someone—
don’t say you’d die for them.
live for them.
try to.
intend to.

like a nutty chocolate
that also has fruits
and a bit of darkness to it—
love is
a mix of paradoxes.

it’s
chaotically messy.


and if the love
hurts you—

find your peace
despite loving
the thing
that brings you ache.

find your comfort,
despite knowing
you loved it.
loved them.

for sometimes,
distancing
is loving—

for them
and for you.

love,
but love yourself too.

it could
wrap around your ribs
like silk—

but you'd realize
the thorns
hidden beneath it.

love
doesn’t have to be monstrous,
forced.

it doesn’t have to be complex.

just
feel what you feel.
express,
and bloom.

the bittersweet,
the happysad,
the syringe
filled with sugar syrup—

this part
is the shadow of love.


i guess i did perform an autopsy over love.

give it to the night sky,
i whisper, looking down at our intertwined hands—
sweaty as they are, my palm amongst yours.
you tighten the grip just right,
looking me in the eye,
pleading silently to never let go.

i smile, as i usually do,
but this one carries the hint of weakness—
the feeling brought by you.
and i look back up; the moon stares—
like a mother, like a father, like a family.
it holds you and i under its pale light,
surrounding us,
despite the dark enclosing us from all sides.

give it to the night sky,
i say again, broken at the end.
you shake your head—
i can't, i hear you mumble,
makes me cry, i hold it in.

you could, give all this love to the night sky,
let me go,
and i'll dream about you.

but is it really necessary?
i promised to stay.

so you do.
i see strength,
and i see the way it fits you—
it comes in waves
until it grapples over you.
and while the dark seeps right across your chest
through the tendrils of my hand,
you never let go.

i watch you break,
wait for you to disintegrate,
as i've always feared—
except the smile never quite leaves your face.

and you give me the look,
looking straight into my eyes once more.
you smile the same way you did the first day,
and the day i told you who i am,
and the day you saw me destroy the world around us—
the same inkling of love
disguised as the passion of a fool.
aren't you a fool

you never let go,
even as my murk surrounds you.
it circles,
ensnares,
screams,
and cries—
but you hold my hand tight all that while.

and when i see it take over you,
thoroughly,
i break down—
like a glass piece shattering.

can't afford to look back up,
can't look at your face.
what have i done,
after all this time,
once again?

squeezing my insides,
finding something—
the same anchor of the heavy
that's held me down all this while.

the feeling so floaty,
i start losing grip of your arm.
and as it falls nimbly to your side,
i can't look at your face.

but there's a shimmer in the night.
the dark is overshadowed—
never has it happened,
but it does now,
as the moon brightens twice.

and your voice echoes—
first in my mind,
then my heart,
and slowly it takes over me,
as a cold hand searches for mine.

the grip is back—
it grounds so light,
unlike what i was before.
you make me look up,
and i see it in your eyes:
no murk, none of mine,
even though tendrils of it
snake around your neck
and give way into lines—
lines shadowed by a glow,
a glow so pure and bright.

you still carry the same smile,
and it makes me cry.

you withheld it all,
i question,
hoping you won't fade away into oblivion.

there are stars in your eyes,
and i see the hearts in mine.
the night glimmers,
and i feel alive.

brought you back to life, didn't i promise?
it could have killed you—
they always mentioned it did.
none of them had the urge,
or the strength,
or saw through you the right way, perhaps.

i chuckle.
perhaps—
i wasn't worth enough of that.

hey, what of me—

well, love, my love,
tie u and i, i shall
our hands together
let this feeling swell,
and you're right,
i'll give you it—
you did bring me back to life.

it flickers to life with a mere spark,
burning so bright—
almost as if it’d set anything nearby into an uncontrollable fire.

the rage at the beginning continues
until the tip burns out.
and if you look close enough,
you'll see sparks dancing in the surrounding cloud of flame:
starting blue, then white,
then a bright orange and raging red.

often missed,
they say the smoldering heat lies in the blue zone.

and the craziest part?
the stick burns—turns black—
but before that,
it glows a bright red, like iron in a furnace,
even if just for a second.

if you touch the matchstick within those seconds—barely two or three—
it burns.
the ghost of the once very alive flame kisses your skin.
but not in a way that harms or leaves a mark—
in a way that the sizzle lingers just beneath the surface,
for minutes.
longer, if the zone is too sensitive.

the flame then catches the rest of the stick.
the darkness spreads so smoothly,
swallowing it whole—
almost like that one void we all try to escape from.

often, only the part you held—
the part you blew out,
afraid it’d reach your fingertips—
remains untouched.
it couldn't live the life meant for itself,
yet more than half was spent unsaid.

the black takes over.
devoid of red,
of flicker,
of magic.

but when it burns—
it’s the prettiest thing ever.

the flame.
the cloud of fire.
albeit small,
bright enough to smolder steel into black
(trust me, i’ve tried).
hot enough to burn skin
(based on personal experimentation).

flickering enough to cause destruction—
and addicting enough to make you want to commit arson.

and then it dies.

a burnt corpse.
once alive for seconds,
fulfilled its own eternity,
the life written for it since the very manufacturing—
and then it lies among the other half-broken, crushed soot,
to live its death.

that’s what it’s for.

like humans as well.

i came across this post today—
it asked me if i wondered
what would be the best place to leave my heart—
even if it's bits and pieces, like shells in the sand.

made a list for my own peace,
but here to share it, if you seek to leave a piece
of your own:

the sea, people claim, carries the tranquil
and provides the cool;

the empty temples and churches,
where your heart prays and reluctantly admits;

graveyards at night,
protected by those who left their own behind.

libraries and dusty old bookstores,
in between the pages and caskets of the used shores.

sun-dappled shades of yellow, green, and orange—
once settled, the purples and pinks of the similar hues.

gardens of thorns and flowers,
the sleeves of your last lover;
knots of the willow trees,
in winter blues and heated blooms,
risky texts during the night,
with strangers i met online,
in midst of late monsoon showers,
not to miss out the midnight hours.

a few bits i leave
in the misty mornings of the early summer,
the drenched evenings of the spring shimmer.

the company of my closest companions—
in the fur of a cat,
the nip of a bunny,
the smile of a pup,
sometimes in a sunset,
in the lush green of the forests,
often in the foil of the autumn trees.

mostly on my bed,
in my tear-filled, forsaken pillow,
and against the one i sleep so dearly.
plushies and teddies,
keepsakes of childhood memories.

with all those i've met so far,
and cookie crumbles at the footstep of my life—
for those who are welcome
and those who are not.

i have left, and leave, a lot more pieces.
i wonder if my heart is a cake-a-piece.

the curve of your smile, as it meets the edge of your eyes.
salty shimmer, like that of burning sunshine in the heat.
i grasp at the sparkles, like a child grabbing onto bubbles—
except you never quite leave,
and so the magnificence stays,
claiming its own small place in my very being.

and the locket sticker i've got tattooed on my arm—
i know what name it carries.

you've got a shadow in your vision—
my own, if i were to keep it hidden.
but it resides, like in a cage behind your beauty.
the imperfections, the mess—
all of me in its chaotic glory.

fingers tainted with melted dark chocolate,
the cranberry bits in it painting your lips.

i ask if i can put pinwheels in your hair.
you tell me i could, as i should.

the faint traces of your hand against mine—
would you paint them with my tears as i cried?

i'd like to carry symphonies spoken amongst us,
settled like candy secrets in the pit of my stomach.

the epiphanies that you've brought in between
whisper to me, like you'd beckon my spirit.

walk with me, to a path leading nowhere.
unhindered.

to exist
when i want nothing but love of my own
for myself
some of it,
dedicated entirely to my being,
my skin, by all means

and i feel like this skin isn't mine
like a second layer
some days i dream of tearing it apart
and perhaps finding what i look like
within

is it any different from the other deformations?
do i have it smooth, baby-like, good enough, to be accepted?

had it been all natural,
nature-given, that way i'd have perhaps accepted
alas, knowing it's a play of the world onto me
and in my body,
my blood messing up everything it's meant to do for me
all because of the ones that were supposed to create antibodies

there's this guttural scream that ensnares me whole

where do i go
when i see them fight the demons outside and around
i can't even win the battles that i carry within me, all time round

and i'm on a war with myself
there's rage, there's ache, there's the pain
of when will i accept
i shall forever bargain

why do i even begin to heal if i have to go down the same place
down the same low
the lows hit lower
i see new symptoms, new symphonies of how it could and would
and it does—it gets worse again
and it's a cycle

healing, accept the white little ***** that carry the science of potential magic
put all my hopes, have them disintegrate
go back again
start at the beginning, new dose around—i'm healing

and then i come crashing down again

and it's the nights
and the mornings
that are the worst

both the times, when i should be at my best
i'm battling, wanting to hide and disappear
and wear a snake-like skin on myself

i hate me
and this hatred lives deep within like a monster that birthed itself
out of the normal, the ordinary that i have lacked

there are days where i pull at my roots
watch them fade
watch them fall
i cry and lose hope with every strand that couldn't stand tall
and it's like cemented on me

had it been scales on a snake, i'd have called it flashy
it's disgust that's piled in my eyes, against my being
i see the look on my face
the dead, the dead stares back every time i try to play pretend
and it whispers
it whispers, smirking in my ear

this is what you get

be normal?
oh i would do anything—exchange half my lifeline
if i could live through a healthy half of life
or whatever remains
i've tired myself out of it all anyway

there's bumps
and there's fractures
i feel like it's my own skin that peels
every time i grasp it

and it's visceral
too graphical, no gore however
makes me wonder
how it'd be—moments of softness
where i cherish just me
where who i am isn't my enemy
even just for a breath
i wish to write about that breath

but oh—
imagining is hard when there's nothing left for you to do
the ones living in delusions have thought and wondered if it could all come true
my case is different
so far, years upon years i've been hoping
but the last of this strength, the last drop in the vessel that was given
it might run out as soon as i stop breathing and moping

and i am perhaps the most devastating liar of all
you shall never see me burning myself to the ground
for i'll stand tall through it all
and in front of your lies, i'll deceive and speak my practiced lines
i'm alright, it is what it is—i'll be fine

i won't be. i am not. i'm tired. give me some hope.

i might be a ***** for feelings
and i fear—i fear so loudly in a silence
call me a *******—love is what i want
hatred is all that i got

i have been hiding
and i've been running
and i sat in this adventure ride
never got back out of it

i'm scared
and i don't think i'll get out of this shell ever
so i imagine myself hiding
covered in multiple shells and armors
walls surrounding me, boundaries in the form of
words and my own scars—the ones that aren't even on the surface
protecting me, giving the silent comfort
that they are here, to carry me on, forward

and i've lied so much
i started believing my own lies
forgetting what was the truth
'cause it hurt so much

what do you do when you go down?
where do you go when you are drowning?

quiet is peaceful
quiet is welcoming
like i don't have to perform to exist in here, no
especially the dark
no one can see me
i can't see me
and that's just easy

to exist that way
been felt for, not seen on the surface
not just looked at, but heard
for your voice to find out of your own existence

there's voices in my head
that'll scare you more

what even is there to love
or like?
i see nothing
and on the surface
it's all to despise

show me if there's something
don't tell me it's the heart that's worth it

when you starve yourself for long enough
the void of hunger becomes like it's a normal
the new normal

starving myself of everything
to get used to it the best way
the void, though
continues to grow

i get these random bouts of feeling
such immense loneliness
makes me want to pull in the closest person
hug them tight
take all the warmth
squeeze out my life

i'm layers upon layers
of words and of stories
of people i've met, their memory
and of all who've given up before me
girl in pieces, i shall call myself
would anyone even want me?

i just lit up a matchstick,
like a rock striking the bed of still water,
creating ripples seemingly impossible to control.
the matchstick ignited the moment it made contact
with the red phosphorus on the box's side.
it burnt so bright, so sharp—
i watched flickers of it, the tiny fire—a world of its own.
the flame started blue at the centre,
turned white, orange, red, and a bright yellow.
was this the sunshine's glow?
or the fire that grew from it?

i watched the match start to shrivel up,
the tip that burnt the brightest went down the fastest.
it dropped on my skin,
left a tiny scar in its midst.
and then the stick caught fire—
slowly, gradually, it ate itself up.
the world swallowed itself whole—
the world that the matchstick had created on its own.

such innocence. i wonder if it had life—
oh, but it did have life.
born with it—well, made the way it is supposed to be:
burn, leave a light, which lasts longer.
the originator of the fire, further.
and it dies because of its own existence.
the box that it comes within
carries what brings it to its ending.

and all those, multiple—oh so many,
that come within a box like a well-settled family,
leave one by one, burning themselves apart.
i wonder if the ones remaining behind know their part?

isn't that the irony of human beings as well?
our own worlds, created by us alone—
swallowing us whole,
and often the ones to bring us to ruin: our own.

sometimes i wonder
if i were to kiss the flame,
pull it in my arms, hug it, and set myself on fire—
would our worlds collide?
would i break the loop of life?
would i find the warmth i require,
or would i too turn to ash,
like the matchstick as my friend?

what would it say—
the flame, as it embraces me in return?
would it be like the caress of a mother’s hand,
or the sizzling burn of my father’s?
would this comfort be my destruction?

i wonder if the matchstick ever regretted its purpose.

there's pieces of me.
well, i'd like for them to be.
like with a big butcher's knife,
i'd carve myself out like a cake
and hand it over in plates
to all the comers
in the party of my life.

i think i'd have a sour frosting,
a bad bread—perhaps even a bad smell.
i don't think i'd be of good taste,
of any good matter,
for that same sake.

a couple long, repeated bad nights of sleep,
ugliness etched in my skin
like sprinkles on the dark frosting.

what flavor would i be, even?
with all this blood and muscle,
i'd dissect my brain in half,
perhaps find the anti-matter.

i hope by the time i'm carving my heart,
it gets to be in the mouths
of all those who tore it apart.

my bones can be handed over
to whoever tried to reside by them,
in there—
when they couldn’t find places,
or simply chose to stick to the rear.

i could be bitter,
i’d admit.
it leaves me to wonder:
perhaps if i were a dish served cold,
would their hands pause?
washed in guilt
as they chew away at me—
would they realize
i taste exactly as they made me?

the irony of the hands that cooked,
the hands that tasted,
the hands that brought me up
and down
to my very ruin.

if i were to leave myself on the table,
sliced and silent—
would they pray before digging in?

maybe i’m not made of cake.
maybe i’m spoiled rot,
sugarcoated with whipping cream,
one that turned black—
the kind of dark your eyes
never really adjust to.

the mask over decay.
i’m still palatable, i believe.

they never asked
what it cost to be served.
but then, it was my choice—
in the end, at least.

they needed the softest parts.
i offered them,
sweetest pain and all.
to get some, you have to lose some.
lose yourself—
find me.

never the full truth,
just fragments i promise
will indeed satiate your gut.

i wonder if they’d spit me out
if i finally stopped the seasoning.
would they ever let a second glance
go my way—
on me, on the plate?

what’s the etiquette for eating?
accept what is served.
and what for eating someone alive?
do you pretend to care—
pray, ****, or just cut it up?

they stitched poetry into my skin.
had me sewing my wounds—
the antiseptic: my own blood.
only to tear me apart
just to get a read.
a glance
at their own work.

and then they wondered
why i never held it together.

my ribs have poison—
the kind i breathed in,
never out.
second to oxygen,
to the air they stole.
air meant for me,
and me whole.

enter if you must—
through my eyes,
down the pipe to my lungs,
and perhaps my heart.
there’s no angels.
no glow.
no butterflies.

i peeled my skin
as if i were stripping bark from old wood—
but who could’ve accepted
the still-rough edges?
no matter how much smoothing i tried to do.

they drank from my brain
like it was grape wine.
told me i was divine,
worthy of memory,
of residence.

and every single time i found myself
in a heart—
it locked me up,
bared me apart.

i carved my way out
with a rusted hand,
my body on the line—
and to prove i had one,
what all did i not do?
was it ever enough?

if i were a mausoleum—
would they leave flowers,
or taste the stench hidden
behind the sweet of my grave?

my veins: strings,
messy and burning
with the desire
to ache and spill out
everything they carry.

my teeth: chewing on bits of my own chest,
hollowed out,
worms crawling within.

this self—
a cage.
a cage of muscle and bone.
enlightened, maybe.
reached the world beyond,
if that’s what they call it.

madness personified.
grotesque, but tender.

all these bruises and wounds—
a decay so glittery
i perform it.

one horrifying nightmare,
mentality gruesome,
pain bespectacled.

they romanticized
every time i bled—
on the steps,
on the hands
that never cared
for the pretty red.

cynical,
pathetic little monsters.
each one shapeshifting
into others.

selective consumption,
their art form.
watch my performative sweetness,
and fake the fake
out of them all.

i think
this is perhaps the first time
i came and picked up my laptop,
sat in front of the blank screen,
with the pointer blinking back at me—
and i realized i had so much to write.

about how the world was being unfair,
of how i was being lied to,
of how i was all by myself all again—
and that's what they wanted:
to isolate me after attachment.

and i don't know,
it didn't hurt the way it used to.
i relapsed, kinda—
but i realized i'd healed much more.
and even though it's surprising,
i just don't know how to pen it down.

i was watching the recent season of ginny and georgia,
and i found quotes and expressions and scenes that i related to—
like *******, like poetry is supposed to be form of self-expressing.
but i never knew how to do it in the first place.

and i've gotten better, i know—
but i lie on my bed,
and something's just so poetic about lying in the dark
with posters on my walls,
with pictures telling me to not give up,
to write, to be creative—
and i do all these things just to stop thinking at all.

like, i have my hair open
and it's the second day since i washed them.
i'd changed the day schedule—
it seems kinda nice, like not a repetition for once.
and my mum's showering,
i'm in my room,
the air conditioning is on—
the heat outside is unbearable.

i received a text from a random person asking for my socials,
and i'm perhaps the first in this generation
to not use a social.

i bathed my bunny today,
she's kinda angry at the fact—
but i know she'll round that. she always does.
she just doesn't like water,
but she needs it.

like i don't like to live and be surrounded
by people who don't want me,
but i have to fake it.

that's kinda simple.
but it's hard to accept—
like the brutal kinda truths that seem to reflect my own insides
and i just have to let them.

and every time i look into the mirror,
i imagine who i can be.
but to be that person,
to be the me in the mirror—
it's just— i don't have a way yet laid out in front of me.

i've got no prompts today—
perhaps i'll ask for some, look around and always return
to write back in here.
but sometimes i wanna write just nothing at all.

like write it out,
but it's about nothing—
just things that are so normal
that they don't even seem to matter.

you won't see someone writing about breathing
until they know the lack of it during a panic attack.
you won't see someone writing about a heartbreak
unless they've been through that.

and they could write from the experiences of others—
but first, you have to experience.

and i don't know,
i'm perhaps getting somewhere—
but that isn't even necessary, at all?
right?
like, i can exist,
and i don't have to make a big point out of it— all times.

i can be breathing,
be listening,
be wanting something but not knowing what i want exactly.
and i could be just in the zone of comfort
without having any comfort at all.

but it's just— hard to define, to put in words.

i had no thoughts when i came here,
but right now i type,
and i watch myself type,
and i see the words coming to life
and i want to keep going on and on and on and on
until the cycle just never stops
and i can keep on speaking and speaking
and somehow get it all out—
all that i've felt, or all that i keep feeling.

and i could write my past down
but i don't have any memory unless it's triggered—
i'm just— like a total black space
with no stars either.

and i'm running out of metaphors
and i'm afraid that i won't have this writing skill of mine.
that's kinda one of the fears.

the second is to show people i truly hear—
and see, and watch as they go ahead
and do the things that will have me lost—
far, far away from them.

and i wonder if they even see then—
that i can be the one they need,
but to be someone that i need,
myself, with me—

i just read a quote that said
"life's easier if you have even just one good friend,"
and i have had— one of those, always and now and then—
but i kinda seem to always lose it all.

and that's alright,
because somehow, you find a way—
but i can't still go to these good friends of mine,
and talk to them—

another thought—
if you can't find a reason to be,
become the reason yourself.

just got a random thought that could be a big quote
and now i'm being gaslighted—
is this thought my own
or did my brain pick it up from somewhere
and threw it in the open for more?

poems don't always have to have an ending—
well, they do.
but that's what i tell myself
when i can't find an ending suitable enough
to fit in the already written words.

and then i realize,
the infamous line from the series i'm currently watching:

"listen or don't, i don't care—
that's life right?
things don't always have happy endings.
or even endings.
it's not fair like that.
we're just left hanging
and we don't know what's gonna happen.
we don't even know what really did happen.
so all we can do is decide to just not care."

"i think you do care.
when you wrote that poem, you wanted an ending.
you crave resolution.
you want things to make sense.
and sometimes they don't.
and that frustrated you,
so you frustrated us, the listeners.
you pushed us away.
oh and that's the name of the poem by the way,
'ending'."

pleading,
crying,
begging—
wanting to be heard.

watching, writhing,
burning in agony.
dreaming a nightmare,
hugging solemn innocence.
aching—
in despair, in desire.

once an angel of life—
now a demon of death in disguise.
her wings were torn, brutally,
and she couldn’t even scream one last time
before they threw her
off the landing.

nowhere to step, nowhere to stand—
barely able to sit,
and yet she ran.

kept running, far and farther still,
only to be pulled back
every time she thought she'd made it out.

they were always there.
watching.
waiting.
hoping.
to catch her,
to tear her—
hands on every part of her.

disgust piled with the blood in her mouth.
she scratched her skin,
tore herself apart—
knowing it’d hurt less
than being caught
by the counterparts.

and yet—
oh, look.
isn’t the moon pretty?

the death: beginning

last night
a part of me died
and i hadn't realized it was taking its last final breath
until i finally couldn't feel it anymore

no amount of music, no amount of talking would blur it out
once again, a death in silence
i couldn't even cry or remorse for what i lost

such parts have died before
but this was my last try(i said so)
and it just hurt so much

i slept with a hollow
woke up with overwhelming numbness
feeling so, so blue

like you could hit me, and i'd cry for what of me died
not because of the pain
because it didn't even hurt—just went numb
and by that—
it hurt so much i didn’t have words

i laughed, went for a walk, listened to music, tried to talk
nothing.
it wasn't going to return.
it was gone.

the urge

like when light leaves the dying’s eyes
like when you watch someone take their final breath,
realize it's never going to come back

like a candle flickering for one last time—
the spoiled wax, of no point
like a bulb going out, its ligament being torn
like a child growing up, having seen oh so much—
they just don’t have any dreams anymore

a part of me died
and today i organize its funeral
with no watchers, no stand-bys
just like always

and to think i'd gotten anywhere
with understanding and accepting—
nowhere.
not even with people,
because they're the ones who killed me

the urge to make the call, ask—beg—why’d you **** me like that?
but just—who would even understand?

i can't even see the screen, writing this with a vision so blurry
eyes so swollen—i even breathe funny
i woke up
wanted to sleep
chose to get up
wish i could’ve slept, because i’ve been crying since

it’s been hours
i was lying curled up
begging for someone to listen
to hold—to just tell me that it’s alright
that i still can be loved like i’m whole

and the funny thing—
i’ve reached the number of deaths
no one in one lifetime could have caused them all

but i let people do it—
the same way, the same streaks


the acceptance

no hopes anymore
no positivity—
it’s just difficult
how do you suppose i can just get back up?

i taste the salt in my tears
find my nose runny

i went back to where i fought so hard to get out from
i felt it—
the death

how it went from barely breathing
to not breathing at all

how it went from staying still at the edge of hope
to crashing against all borders and falling off

how it felt like i’d been drowned, thrown, teared through, broken, dissipated
i—i just can’t

i’ll stop crying in a bit
and just go back to living
except with another part of me dead

i don’t even know how i shall mourn her death
too dumb, but she just had hopes

i’ll wipe my nose, wipe away my tears
get the ice-pack to bring down the swelling
for once drained, once it’s all out

either way, i’ll be a shell of what i’ve been all this while
a bit more hollow on the inside

this time it made no noise
the fall seemed to be never-ending
usually i heard it break, scatter—
the fragments and shards—i picked them up piece by piece

but this time—
it just fell
freefall?
i’m barely alive now

as long as this body exists
with the slightest of life on it
there will be no mourners for all the parts of me that are no more


the questioning

i’m a museum of everything i’ve ever loved
and there’s graves within me
of places where i lost a part of me

and often i don’t remember them all
but sometimes, when a situation asks one kind of mine
i step by the graveyard of my own self
and often mourn them myself

i meet people
and i give them some bits of me
ones i didn’t know existed long before i’d met the person in front of me

and then that part stays with them
they decide—often unknowingly—that it’s in their pocket
on their shoulder, in their fist
somehow never close enough to reside in their mind or heart

and yet sometimes
these parts get lost in people
watching them leave

often they’re simply handed back
sometimes they’re killed

and i need no understanding of how i end up giving them out
like handing candies to children on a halloween night
uncaring who gets which one, no favoritism
blindly trusting, i just head straight right in

always unknown what and how much they hold of mine
i didn’t even plan on trusting or attaching
and yet somehow i did
and then i’m left with nothing but the mere spirit

feeling the hollow
and the lost
how do i not cave in to death
and keep going on like a fool?
how do i live on when i'm barely alive anymore?

the dreaming

grief is sickening, like long aged sour frosting
numbness woven into it, disturbing and devasting and what not
it breathes like something real, coils in the pit of my stomach leaving my body to ache in silence, to reel, feel, and fear

sometimes i feel like i'm stitched together by borrowed light
but then i ain't any moon—perhaps a starlight?

there's parts of me made of people and moments that weren't even meant to stay
and in return all the pieces i gave of myself
so it would be right to say i'm a mismatched puzzle, always missing, never complete

this light burns, seethes, flickers, garbles, echoes
this grief doesn't scream, it lingers
like the perfume that i once used to wear
and that old teddy bear to hug
on nights when i used to feel hollowed

it wraps around my bones
around my muscles and my organs
especially my heart and my lungs

and it squeezes in tight, like a rope that's being pulled from both sides
the knot just seems to grow in size, blindness coming around my eyes

only i know it exists, this grief—
as it breathes under my laughter, only i can feel it

it splinters every single breath i try to take
ghosts all my memories, makes me want to forget
like a constant static—this pain is immense

i've got invisible bruises, oh so many—
you'd see them clearer if you were to see the way my eyes lie in their residues

the death: end

i carry my dead
like folded crushed paper notes that i don't wanna let go of
from the maybe's to the it's never happening
it seemed to be something, now it's a sad little nothing

oh so broken, everywhere i go
i offer parts of me like i'm a free use and throw tissue
but what can i do?
when they never ask for how i am—
only ask of me, how can i help?

went down the lane of thoughts—one that busied my mind and made the voices stop
they blurred, i held the blade in my hand, even my mind stuttered
you've been away and strong for so long, not again
but the pain was immense

yesterday a piece of me had died
and today i was told to

how could i possibly accept all this sorrow
and feel my heart do the free falls again and again?

i have three cuts
not proper—the blade was too weak
i tried to write 'loser'
got stuck at the e
lost myself
returned to and wondered:
perhaps i've got a thick skin

disgusts me—my own head
i still keep on wondering
why can’t i just be dead





this could go on and on
i live in a paradox
despise, wanting to still be alive
deny, wanting to die, despite my tries
a misfit in the world of those who seem to be natural
at finding their own places
i have no one to call my own
why would anyone even want me as their own?

i don't agree all at once,
having to visit the spiritual corners of this earth,
for they make me see a hope—
one that's been long since buried,
one that i dropped like a crushed piece of paper
aside, a random evening.

and yet, every time i find myself surrounded by the presence of his,
the almighty, the gods that these people cherish,
i look at them, feeling withdrawn—
yet somehow, they call me back in.
(almost like a pied-piper, am i being hypnotised or beckoned forthwith?)

every time i wander,
find myself surrounded by his devotees—
multiple gods, yet just one single feeling:
devotion.
i'd add the adjective 'blind' before it,
but i wouldn't want to disrespect—despite all that i carry.

they cherish him,
surrender at his feet,
beg him for forgiveness,
plead to him for their wishes,

almost like carrying hopes resembling bells ridden with stars,
twinkling, resounding the beats of their (often rotten, mostly pained) hearts.
there's a mix, i know, in their crowd—it's a mix of all those who walk the ground,
except they're equal in here.
perhaps that's one of the powers he carries,
visibly hidden in the plain old sight.
i'm sure he'd be a lot too merry,
seeing them murmur the same chantings,
despite all the differences, they still harry.

my mundane self, surrounded by the divine—
here's what i saw with the same eyes that once shined:
i wonder if the steps of the temple know
who walks upon,
who waits for his own.

i could capture it through the camera,
but to write it down would make me feel seen.
so here it is, kind of like a monologue—
i'll pray upon him, so you won't hate me.

alive with color, motion, scent, and sound—
isn't that the four senses working around?

the man behind the sweets,
who knows which ones vanish first,
which are opted the most—
and the ones people go for.

those who buy—
i, wondering, watching my own family enter,
are they getting the sweets to offer to their gods?
should i too try to please him, to make him listen to me?
is it bargaining—being too cheap,
or is it silently offering him a price to make him believe in my honesty?

there's a child—i'm sure he doesn't even understand.
he spins, in circles,
creating illusions of dreams and stars in bundles,
not knowing why he's happy,
only that he is.
i miss when my innocence had me still.

a father—hair tugged gently by tiny fingers,
trying to steer him through the crowd.
of course, he knows better,
but he'll listen to his son
and his own memories of being carried around.

the same way—
a mother who lifts her child,
the one who carries the world within himself.
he's her world, yet to know his own disguise.

a priest, giving into the glowing screen
while sitting in front of the one he preaches day and night.
i'm sure that's considered minimal,
considering the world out there is built up
of more such people, giving into the illusions
of what the ones around are to offer.
i wonder if they realize the grave truth in its simplicity:
their bodies, which their souls inherit,
are also rented as temporary.

there's many more
that surround—children, aged, middle ones—all of them around.
to zoom out and narrate from their perspective—
i wonder if i seem to be fake?

i look at the feet of people,
showing ways they've walked,
ways they've lived,
and ways they've continued to trot
to find their peace in this world.

as they climb up the steps, in crowds,
holding hands and not missing anything out,
i see it in their eyes.
as they dream, almost child-like,
their hope symbolizes their life.

and to put it in the entirety towards one single entity—
the one who sits at the top,
is flowered, crowned, gifted upon.
i look at him in the eye,
and something about the moment makes me smile.

"alright," i whisper, as if i'm talking to a friend.
"i'll wish this once, once again."

and i ask for something simple, something that i've needed,
something i'm sure he'd understand and agree
and listen to with an intent:

"keep my hope alive,
to you, and to the life alongside.
and i'll return again and again,
be one of the ones surrounding.
i'll pray and hope to you again."

and that's how i leave—
calmer self, lighter chest,
a bit better than before,
maybe with a newly found hope.

i turn around one last time,
knowing i'll be back before long,
and i smile.

instead of waving, i touch the steps
that have carried thousands, including my own.
"i'm leaving for now, but i'll return—
right when i need to be with you, not just by myself."

this was all from the eyes of a hopeful ordinary.
i walk among you. i am one of you.
the lord does reside within me.

"are you contemplating? did you observe enough?  
have you surveyed them all?  
have you scanned me, inspected my wounds, and scrutinized me whole?  
did you see—view the noisy entities that lie around me?  
thanks and regards, i hope i helped you with your study."


would you go ahead and just cry, baby?
i told you before—i've been poisoned a lot.

snakes, ghosts, waning moon in the shadows—
breathing slow, i gasp for more.
someone plays on the drums; the night feels alive.
my skin thrums—there's something under it tonight.

i've traced paths, points on a corkboard,
placed tags along as i go,
walking in the direction that leads back to the very center.
traps—traps—oh, so many.
they’ve set me up too many times—
i wonder if even they found it uncanny.

like a spider's web—intricate, yet messy—
it knows what it’s doing,
yet sometimes makes unsolicited errors
in the repeated counting,
as does the world around me.

long in motion, trapped, all of it a lie—
a plot, so humongously tried.
something about the way they speak,
how the smile almost always means the same thing,
how it reaches the eyes that carry a darkness so queer.

truth has always been one breath away—
i took that one—gasped, coughed, choked it out,
watched the mask slip.
they didn’t fall—i did.

viewers from the third eye, melancholic stillness in their sight,
piece by piece, watched me crash.
saw me bury the upturned corpses of all that i’d had,
crestfallen under the weight of secrets—
too many, too layered, too loud to ignore.
never meant to carry, never meant to become
merely the pawn, the bug stuck in the web—
yet desolated, they stained it mad.

there’s blood on me—
not theirs, but my own.
as i rasp out to repeat:
withered flowers still had the same old thorns,
as if sharpened by hand—like a dagger against stone.

you don’t realize how much it *****
when you have to pretend the lie doesn’t hurt.
and when the lie is you—all of you—
it’s like smiling a wisp away from the hug of death.
perchance, if anything’s left,
add it here. leave it be.
the texts, the calls, the hidden clues play on—
you dare cheat?

leering through the red trees,
the sparks of the stars that once whispered memories—
it’s so cold in this place, like being stuck in a maze.
every turn, a version of you exists,
one that i didn’t know how to name.
i’ve met enough to barely remember how to count—
or which number i’d reached.

no escape clauses here, just sounds of glass shattering.
trust is what lies on the ground beneath your feet.
i’ve seen the graveyard where all my hope lies,
sleeping since forever—
it’s been quite a while.
maybe the betrayal isn’t always the worst part—
maybe it’s the quiet.
the silence of watching the lies be watered,
brought up into flowers.
ones with thorns—
the thorns that ***** the same hand which had sown
the seeds—
it always comes back in a loop.
and i promise it’ll come back to hit you.

i’ve been poisoned enough to know
when it’s mere liquor,
or when it’s laced with sweeter wine—
the one that carries all the enzymes
needed to make me curl up,
squeeze the inside of my guts,
choke out my heart,
watch it be torn through
by hands that resemble claws.

you’re like an eagle—
beady-eyed and grinning.

they’ve said love comes with a price,
that bonds need no ice.
this setup, alas, was stitched with rot.
i walked into it willingly.
though i wasn’t the only pawn—
unknowingly so.

check the board again, my love—
who all stand? who made the rules?
i store it in a vessel—
the tragedy i have become.
you didn’t follow all the runes.
all you need to know,
even as you watch my corpse fall:
poison has come to know its own.
and despite all—you were all that i needed as an antidote,
to stop the black that visibly spreads through my veins.
you and i watch it reach up to my eyes—
one last glance.
the board shall remember:
i'll take your name.
you.

i remember
a memory —
it isn't mine.
someone else's.

being the kid we used to be
(yes, i'm writing it in their pov)
we drank lemonade under the summer sun,
watched the bulb in the sky brighten,
heard the promises of forever
where no voice resonated.

echoes of my woes
learned to yearn within these walls.

it's a contrast: sweet, distant, aching.
have you ever heard of feeling nothing —
like the silence after chaos,
a void so deep,
there seems to be nothing it's composed of at all?
an absence that has screamed louder since its presence.

i listen to skyfall as i write,
and no, the sky hasn't fallen —
but it seems it would have felt better if it did.
a way to express what i feel deep inside,
since the breaking.

there are regrets.
like a flower blooms under the sun,
my regret bloomed under the skin of love,
whispered between lines,
composed of all the maybes it could have been —
the ideas, the fantasies,
versions of you that never came to just be.

perhaps i'd dreamt different —
not of someone,
but of how things seemed to me.

but it's nighttime, and i sit,
and like a building collapsing, i think —
stars falling, heavens opening, illusions crashing,
my heart strengthening.
it rubs painfully against the chest — or so.
i wish it hurt just a little bit more,
for i feel it tends to lack intensity.

how you simply waved a goodbye —
i felt it like waves in the sea.
yours was late, brief —
mine drowned, delivered me to the ending.

i have my window open.
i'll try to describe the night sky.
it still seems impossible,
like it did that night.

the stars — they watched me silently.
maybe they witnessed the fall as well.
and then i wondered —
did i even know it all that well?

maybe they were the lovers who never made it home.
maybe they were the parallels to what was meant to be alone.
i kinda hoped it'd be one way —
either you'd become a star, or me, or us together.
and whoever remained would have watched it
as we grew old together.

alas, what remains of it now?
the memories, the hauntings —
are they simply the nothings in between the heavier things?

wave after wave,
they take me with them,
bring me back
to where i began.

we were kids once,
with lemonade hearts —
not the sugary kind,
but the one filled with zest and a spark.

the sky remembers all that i've forgotten.
the same track on repeat —
i wish i'd heard it the night that brought me to hit rock bottom.

i want to write and write and write
and let it devour you and me
and all the eyes that ponder over these words whole.

for that nothing
felt like everything for a moment.

and i can't believe
you missed out
on becoming the lovers —
the ones i dreamt for us to be.



that was indeed just the end, then.

like the sounds of tires on gravel
when the track twists just right —
hold—wait—stop—
i need to catch up to my memories.
but what of all the ones you left with?
bled into them: the last gaze, the lasting wounds.
oh, look — it crumbled.

had you promised to stay
and followed it through,
i'd have torn the sky apart
with bare hands,
set ablaze all those who came in our path.
but alas, easy way out —
i saw nothing (that was enough then),
never saw beyond you
(but now i see all of you).

and i shall wash away,
off the shore, at the edge of the boat.
i shall let go and watch.
you've slipped from my hands
like dust in between fingers.
the sandglass broke,
so did the beats at which my heart spoke.
i wish you the best.
i shall hope you find rest
in places that aren't filled with me.

it's a closure,
it's my closure —
turns out,
that's all i've ever seeked.

hereby i announce the signs
the tell-tale of how i met the monsters one random night
and no, i don't remember when exactly
hello! they didn’t appreciate me

i saw them in people first
shadowed creatures looking over their shoulders
creeping inside from the back
i watched them take place in their head
and in their eyes—every time i saw myself
what if—what if—what if—

they know who you are!
they know what you hide!
they will see through you, you need to disguise!
hide! mask! they'll come in the night
despise—despite everything—you need to run and find cover
you can't be bare—not in front of this world
they'll hurt more—seeing the scars you carry
blame it all on you, for the past—when you weren't so merry
they'll see through the false hope and the desires to live
they'll make you hate life more, you need to perish

then they entered my head
from people, to me—within deep—etched to the core
they haunted all my memories
they stared and made me feel obnoxious

i don't even know—why, when or how
or any of the other questions you could ask around

i have a head full of monsters and i killed them one by one
alas, only if i'd known—they replicated, gave birth to new ones

and so i live
with a demon on my shoulder
a mix of all those who brought me up altogether
and it reminds, and reminds and reminds and screams
it hollows me out, every bit from within

and sometimes i hope i'll find a way to silence it or even a simple meaning
but then i look into the eyes of others, see the mirth—the silent sly creatures—the humans that walk on this earth
and i lend my ear to the demon, let it whisper, let it carry me forward
for who am i, if i can't be scheming

and it wasn't to hurt
but to protect
no one did it for me
i learnt and played myself

never to be just a pawn in their games
the monsters ruled me out, splashed me with blood
as i walked and cut across every other piece on the board
they cheered, screamed and haunted me with all the gore
and i never laughed, only cried
all my tears, my eyes dried

i'd tell you to beware, wish you never see any
for they hold over and ensnare
everyone who's watching, they've had their own
we weren't born with monsters
but now we're the ones that are shown
bright in the light, not simply in the nights
we walk during the day—
i hate my brain.

it sneers, you know?
every time someone tries to get too close
it mocks—my reflection, i see it gripping my nerves
watch it sipping on my blood
and every moment i'm told, i’m here for you
the demon sips on my feelings
drains the word, they’re left with no meaning
and every chance i get to feel the warmth—opposite to the usual cold
it leers, peeks over, curses and takes over
it's not me if i push you away, i'd want you to know and understand and for you to stay
please get rid of him for me, for i lose strength day by day
i do not know how longer i can carry
i've got a demon on my shoulder, and it rose from all the ones i walked across
it is cross with the word, an angel at first—it just wouldn't let me be merry.

i knew it — something was here
within me, beside me, around me.
being woken up by fire isn't so surreal.

stepped down on the floor, felt it through my bare feet,
watched the skin glisten, brighten,
turn red and burn with such an intensity.

the heat was unbearable, so were the surroundings,
and yet — yet i found myself going down the lane of memories.

the pathway, a tunnel — almost like a water slide,
bleeding with my tears.
i fell and fell,
found it impossible to reconcile

with everything and the no-longer-supposed-to-matter things of my past.
felt watched, looked around,
remembered the concept of “nazar” in the background —
someone’s always watching, always picking, always hoping
for me to fall, to go down, to enter the lows and never get back up.

i hate the color orange. it just messes me up,
reminds me of all the times i hoped it wouldn’t come true.
i stand amidst the burning flames, watch their color blaze,
see it in my own eyes, stand tall watching myself smile.

am i sleeping? why do i sense no meaning?

the embers rising from the hearth could melt gold — make it blood.
i feel it through my veins and my bones, my muscles and my soles.
the lines are blurry — so is my vision.

i intended to wake myself up, but i can't stop sleeping.
i watch her — and him — and myself — and my dreams.

the final line loops back to the same question:
was i ever awake, or was this fire the irony to hire?
was i up at stake, all this while?
i did truly forget how to smile.

but then i inhabited,
held it close, hugged it.
tiny little sparks emerged from the cacophonies.
i dreamt with meaning, slept with a feeling.
the fire was an old friend —
the memory lane one lost, but remembered quite a lot.

i found a water jug at my side table.
the floor didn’t burn or sear.
they still watched,
but i had the evil eye pressed up close —
sleeping and dreaming of lying with my only 'gold'.
it sparkled, it shimmered, it brightened, and my heart glimmered.

perhaps i was never awake.
it wasn’t no nightmare.
i’m happy where i am.
wouldn’t want to bargain —
not here or anywhere.

i drew a few hearts on my bedding
when it was bare without any sheets
perhaps i shouldn't have — it's bad manners,
what you're taught as a toddler to preach in.
but then i wondered —
who would ever notice?
i'd like to mention, the art of noticing.

i went to fetch some groceries.
while returning, without my headphones,
i took notice — and the world seemed to hold me in.
a woman was talking to her husband,
chatting about how the war drills cancelled.
two brothers were playing cricket —
i passed them by and heard the younger say,
i'll learn to throw well in time if i grew bolder, yeah?
the older one smiled —
a smile i've done many times — and chuckled.

it's not always the best place to be,
the world i mean — when you wish to fit in.
i'm almost always with my earphones — wired or the other ones,
trying to fade it out: the noise, the surreality, almost all of it.
because it's just so hard to seek the peace i intend to live with.
but then, on a few random days where i feel like the chosen,
everything feels a bit better —
like it's not that bad to be broken?

they function, yes they do —
but i notice the way they lag,
and sometimes choose just not to
show who they are.
so they wear masks:
ones that hide, ones they despise,
and sometimes don’t even realize
until it’s too late — and the mask melts into their skin.

i feel bad sometimes —
this empathy just carries my soul,
brings it to absorb every ounce of pain i can
from the one beside, and the ones i cross.

but on other days like tonight,
i walk, almost free.
there’s good winds, myself carefree.
there’s a lot of work pending —
i won’t deny i’m procrastinating.
but for once i smile,
and i smile at the thought of myself smiling —
for no cause, probably seeming delusional
to the one in passing.

but how do i tell them the moon’s following,
and there’s the hint of wet mud after the evening shower —
the sensation filling up my blood —
and it’s nice for once, easy to exist,
almost easier to fit in.

my thoughts are like string lights,
almost always entangled together.
not one single shines bright —
but sometimes they glow,
like when i'm hit with a current of emotions.
they glow bright, almost enchanting —
and on nights i'm able to sort,
sort through the flickering ones,
the ones that died, and the ones that hold the right light,
i pour them out, let the candle-like wax from my brain transcribe
words and feelings into the right imagery,
hoping it'll make sense by the time i'm done with it.
and this right here is quite one of the examples
of same cord of fairy lights
(i'm to believe i might be magical in all my might).

but then i look around
and see the way they look in return —
and even though i stand out,
stand out in a way the odd one does
in the system of evens —
it’s not the best thing, not the flashiest.

but i continue to walk
with a silent acceptance.
maybe the world is like this.
sometimes i notice the good,
often the bad,
mostly the in-between.

and the greys are a nice position to be in
when the extremes have taken you and thrown you.
for not all magnets hold together —
the like ones just never really go well together.

we're all simply misfits —
and yet the word holds the fits.
so i guess in the end,
we all really do miss the irony of it.

a random way to start a poem.
this was the prompt i'd given to my head.
i re-read it,
realized it works as it was—
and i didn’t need another instead.

this might be more of a digital zine.
i read it once, and more—
had it unravel my soul.
there's a lot that goes in here.
free verses are simply rare.

i've got a mind
trying to make sense of the chaos
through rhythm and fragments,
a heart
trying, staying far away from the shallow ends.

this is a journal between them both—
a memoir,
monologue,
memory,
moment—
perhaps double of all.

there's contradiction,
there's numbness,
and a yearning.
i ain't always living
in the classic sweet little nothings.

listening to the wrong playlist.
well, it’s just that particular one.
special moments, special feeling,
kinda thing?
the kind where the memories are kept and treasured.
but in the long run,
i’m afraid they’ll get weathered.

there’s a lot, quite literally.
today’s another time i write about—
well, being picked up and left.
not in the wrong way,
as a choice—perhaps?

slept only for three hours or so last night.
it was the last day—
ending of a year in a place
that ought to have been littered with memories,
and yet i felt—
a lot of nothings
things do that to you eventually, i guess.

they say when you keep lying to yourself,
pretending it doesn’t exist,
you hear screaming one day
and all you ask
is if the world exists.

numb.
that’s all i’ve been—
for most part, at least.
still am when it comes to talking
’bout things i should speak
about and of—
but they’re hard to put in words.

and so once again,
like a fool unknown to use of language,
here i am—
hoping you’d understand.

three hours of sleep.
two of writing my final.
another of waiting.
another two of failing at
achieving what had been planned
before it had to end.

a call—
my phone is ringing.
is it them?
yes—oh yes! i’m worried.
should i answer—
play pretend sleeping?
heart’s weak since the 21st of may,
i think i just will.

and so i did.
and so i found them
at quite literally my doorstep.
and next second we were out and talking.

have you seen petals bloom?
or sunflowers turning towards the sun—
slowly, gradually living and soaking it up?
i believe we’re that way.

it starts slow—
words and gestures,
nods and silly little eye contacts.
and then one speaks—
the other carries—
the third continues—
the loop persists.

(i wish the loop did exist this once.
a loop that would let me do whatever,
except each day would end on a different note—
in a different setting,
with the same people—
and the same old feelings.)

balloons.
ice creams.
ice pops—
they melted.
grape flavored. all three.

movie—kind of boring.
laughing—yes. loads.
walks on the footpath.
one continued to trot,
the other just headed for the road.

wished i’d been a ghost—
to stay,
to follow,
to breathe the same air,
not obsessively—
to protect,
to handle,
and to show the care that i felt—


memento? wanted.
find? never did.
left with—
memories.
hopes.
thoughts.
a lot more contraries.

still no pictures (well i have one! of them)
multiple in my head.
words and feelings—
all the downturned,
less spoken of meanings,
shared all at once—
"here’s what happened with me—"
"you need to tell me about yours—"
"we’re listening."

"the ones who know you the most,
are actually the ones who become the perfect ghosts."
meant nothing—
spoken without thinking.

and oh—friends.
the ones who’re ours. ours. yours & mine.
they are the ones who truly get to leave.
rest are unknowns—
they’ll still be so.

i’m afraid of goodbyes.
and of forgetting.
and of missing out—
living in the moment,
hoping to store it all in—
and watching it fade out.

of distancing.
of walking away.
of pretending it wasn’t real.

’cause it was.
and it has always been.
there’s just too many masks
and too many vulnerabilities underneath.

and irony to say—
remove the mask and show the real you.
the real is layered like an onion—
never saw light of the day after that one point in time.

forgot to laugh even—

i’ve been laughing and smiling a lot recently.
should i be worried?

asked,
are you going to pretend none of this happened and move on?
and this sounded like an ex’s question to their former lover.
but this one came true—
from the bottom—
deepest betrayed—
often starved,
often overruled layer.
the original.

will you fade out too? was the meaning.
heard no symphonies,
no heeding.
so it seemed.

i wouldn’t mention the replies or the comments.
perhaps i should.
i’ll hide them in words,
like i should have hidden the fragile
before i let it take over.

but sometimes it shows,
peeks out like an observing, curious,
scared little child
seeing a new person for the first time.

(curiosity killed the cat—
sometimes i was killed too.)

e-rickshaw rides. (a blue balloon.)
empty roads—
away from the city life and the highways.
barren land—
a flower shop.

a pink rose.
a blue balloon once more?
a red one to the one who helped cash in.
a pink chrysanthemum too—
unless i’m wrong, beauty nonetheless.

smiles.
smiles all along.
the security.
rose to him.
chatted along.
teamwork? surely.

cab driver.
music!
oh, can you play darling?
yellow balloon for his child.

child reminds me—
all the kids in the mall!
playstores and areas—
eating,
screaming,
crying,
laughing,
filled with glee.

and families.
blood is thicker than water.
not being related by blood—
i wouldn’t compare the densities.

(purple. pink. orange. blue. red.
the colors of balloons that i have.)

couldn’t share hugs—
too awkward,
i know i’m that.

(kinda mad, chaotic—
and sly.)

i do see it all,
but how do i say i’m afraid of it being a lie?
can’t confirm,
so i try to get it out in words.
from the others, of course—
can never admit i understand.
what if i understand it all wrong?
i’ve done—multiple times—
mostly bad—
compared to the rare good.

back home, in the shower—
hit me hard and soft playing.
a new kind of love followed,
settled in the dark.
took out my laptop
and turned it on—
cigarettes after *** songs that feel like drowning
and here i’m writing.

sleep.
i should.
but first, i’ll admit something—
only in words i could.

i’ve been smiling.
a lot, recently—
plotting, perhaps—maybe?
not to hurt,
to be aware.
to beware—
to protect.

i don’t want to be betrayed.
no tears,
heart feels heavy.

writing didn’t help much,
i didn’t know what to really say.
i speak slower at first—
at a tone only i can hear.
first to recognize,
that it’s how i sound.
second to make sure—
if this is really what i want to go around?
but then louder,
to express—
i’m left with several ways—
a couple handshakes—
a few signatures.
and that’s all i am—
boring, awkward,
a ghost of the third pov.

but that’s not how it feels—
at most times, at least.
feels like i exist—
hi, i’m here.
will you let me breathe?

they do.

how will you describe me?
& us! they asked so—

i'd read something a while ago.
the negatives could be killed by the positive—
but no, that wasn't the entire truth.
in the long run,
that is what you could grow into.
negatives were easy to fall back in—
the positives had to be given birth.
and for that,
the seed,
for the bud to grow—
warmth.

i termed them as warmth.

my hands are slowing down.
eyes shutting even faster.
i’m going to sleep,
kinda hungry,
but i won't be eating.

going to sleep—
a long, long sleep tonight—
hopefully it’ll be without dreams.

i’ve left pieces of myself once again—
bigger, rarer,
truer ones
that can be termed as fossils
from how long they’d been buried.

but i don’t seem to regret it.

i shall trust you—
it’ll be your choice to hold.

my heart kinda hurts.
i’ll come back later?
(you’ll be back, later, yeah?)

(a cut that always bleeds—
mine do a lot more than just that.)

afraid it’ll be long gone—
never to repeat—
that it wouldn’t be the same—
i’m afraid of destiny.
afraid of fate—
of everything turning out wrong.
(he had said something- it slipped from my memory)

and it hits
because i know a distance
and a time period that’s to come—
it just is so long.
the day ended.
smiles.
in all smiles.

i’ve been smiling a lot.
but then why is my heart so heavy?
is it nostalgia?
or is this the feeling i carry?
i wish i could be read—
as easily as reading a book with chapters titled and left—
bookmarked.
oh, it would help!

there's no tone—
nowhere the end to which this ought to go.
but it doesn't have to end, does it?
i'll keep it open—
not shallow—
not broken.

now, a couple things that i ought to add.
these are random, but they're the warmth they left.
the clock ticked the same way before,
why do i notice a few numbers—specific times—
the angles, a lot more?

i got my form of warmth from the people,
and i think i'll accept it now—
i've always wanted for it to be real.
bonds and bonds and bonds and families—
did i repeat? you'll see the meaning.

i got a sad soul with a happy personality.
see the paradoxes a lot more—
should rather be focusing on my memory.

the rules the society set—
work, earn, repeat—forget the rest.
i think i'll pass on that.

i still believe in mbti's and words that describe you—
knowing humans are more than that—
beyond feelings and beyond the divided distinctions.

like why start a maze from the beginning to end—
start from the ending you know—
maybe you'll go around the right way to the front.
lay down the path
for the ones who needed help to follow.
i often start from the centre of a puzzle
instead of finding all the pieces and placing out the corners.
boundaries are there—rarely taken down—
but walls need not be broken,
you could build a door!

and windows—
i've got a couple to my own self.
just knock the right way—
and i'll hand you the keys you'll need.


we had desserts!
a lot—
sweets—
oh, i love when i get to hear them talk.
it's nice having people.
nice having the ones you can love
without having to leave,
without having to prove.

but then—

you throw pebbles in the water—
watching the ripples they make.
this probably has a meaning—
but i think more of the stones in the stomach—
at the base of the meek.
is that why i too feel so heavy?
is it being anchored,
or set up for a fall that's called drowning?

the edit: (here to once again)

dreamt this once.
i woke up—had an epiphany.
a zeitgeist?

i saw a rope—
actually two.
are they here to pull me out
or simply leave me battling through?

i gasped, grasped so hard—
watched it go taut—i pulled so hard.
fragments punctured the palms of my hands,
the knots on the rope resembling a tug—
every chapter i ought to be pulled up.

the rope was warm—glowing even,
connected to the figures who stood at the end.
they were blowing—bubbles on land.
i didn't have to see their faces—
not as of then.
except, despite not capturing the moment,
they still remain engraved.

please don't let go—
i'd voiced it out.
they couldn't hear it through the water
that surrounded me all around.
please don't let go—
i screamed.

water filled up my mouth—
the rope burnt through my skin.
there were chains at my ankles,
something holding me down,
pulling at my shins.

i looked at the scars left behind by the other ropes—
the ones before.
other tries at saving.
rare as they'd been,
they remained,
and i felt my grip weakening.

something within yet again called out—
forced me to keep going.
to squeeze at the knots,
hold it tight,
pull myself up—
and then what?

could i swim?
perhaps i never learnt.
who would have thought i'd be drowning?

halfway up, or so it seemed,
i looked down—
the deep was and is unmeasured.
i've been here?
how long have i lived?

visible just enough,
the knots swarmed around me.
the rope fell and fell—
i pulled it harder and harder,
like the hands of a boat weaving through water.

i was so close to the top—
am i finally going to be better?

felt a grip at my wrists,
up my arms—
i felt the lethargy.
i lost the rope from my hands.

i didn't let go first—
or maybe i did.

all i remember from that night is:
there was a knot that had formed—
that locked me up—
tied itself around me,
making this mass a dead weight.

and i'd drowned once again
to a new rot—
to a new never.
a deep i didn't know existed.

they were molten hot this once—
my skin burnt.
the cold, numbing cold of the water
did nothing but provide a sensation—
like adding salt to the wounds.

i watched the figures,
who ought to have held the other end
for a little while longer.
they were human.
they perhaps got tired.
i'd watched them walk away.

read it somewhere,
thought i'd write my own
with the same meaning.

if poetry were to cover up my bleeding scars—
shouldn't there be bandages
instead of hollowed-up wounds
that were left for me to shower—
with care and in pain,
with love and in ache.

hi!
i'm here,
and i'll stay.




need not—shouldn't have ended this
the way i brought it to a close.
but i'll admit another once:
i loved it—loved being in their company,
and i shall hope and wonder
if it'll repeat, or if i'll reap
all that i've sown. i don't think there's much to begin with—
no clue, no ideas, nowhere to go.
loved it, loved what came out of it,
loved them, loved life, a bit more than i did the last time.

it's hard to begin, even harder to end.
i'm talking about poetry, not human bondings.
they mend, need stitches, new careful considerations—
specially in the patterns you plan to weave.
i never knew how to embroider,
but i think i did learn a bit on how to hit repeat.

tonight. the night repeats.
i've put the tape in my head, of all the memories.
my eyes cross, my vision swims,
and i shall go to sleep with a sigh—
one that cleanses my soul, gets rid of all that's stuck.
and i hope i'll dream of another time,
the first or the second.
there hasn't been a third—
perhaps i should end this with a yet or maybe.

maybe it is. maybe it will be.
maybe i'll love to live, and live to love—
someday, perhaps, maybe.

i don't consider myself much of an author
though you could call me a poet
i have a book, turns out
i guess i've been living under its illusion
but today, after three months of it being public
i held it in my hands and went through the pages

i'm not super proud, i'll admit
it's not perfect, barely anything
if i were to compare my current writing with that of the book
i'd call myself childish when i thought it could look
poetic or pass off as poetry
i'm no professional, barely perfection
but the title does say perhaps we could be anything

so here i was, reading through, found a good few
but most seemed to lack the fervor that i thought
when i penned down that thought
and once again i wondered, am i supposed to be proud of this thing?
thing, huh. really low of me to put it that way
when i started writing and it was a beginner's sake
no plans, thoroughly unrequired

i know many creators
ones who are artists, and they almost always mention
“i'm not really proud of that one” —
the particular one that marked their beginning
but i guess the beginnings are the time capsules
that lead to more such evenings
when you finalize a draft, finalize a piece,
put it out there wondering maybe it still lacks it
but the heartbeat — of that moment when it's passed on and upon —
maybe not everyone would critique
are we ever really proud of all that we do?
do we really accept it?

then this particular vision erupted in my head
i held the book, held it in my hands
and it was out there, and anyone could peek into my head
it escalated — vibrant imagery indeed
i was left to accept that if anyone wanted,
they could have had parts of me
the specific ones inside the book
and the ones in the title
and in the words
and in the emotions that led it on

and even though it wasn't everything, not as i'd desired
maybe someone could find a piece they loved in there?

perhaps it wasn't that bad of a choice
not super proud again — but hey, i'm a poet!
i've been writing more, learning better, and listening loads
i think i might be onto something
like let it enfold you by charles bukowski
god, i don't know the man
not his works or of any other plans
but i do know that words stick
the meaning they carry does too

and if i say i love the book (yet to like it)
will you read it for me too?

someone once asked me
if i were to describe how my heart looked
in words and not through science.
it left me wondering for ages,
finding the right words—
i realized metaphors worked,
kinda like being tangled in lines,
woven outta feelings i can't describe.

my heart is perhaps a lonely, lonely setting
in a space—void of any lighting.
there's glitter on it though,
and whenever it gets a signal of the memory,
cursed even if it was,
it glows like a broken lamp
flickering to light on an empty road,
like an old cd player stuck on the same song—
or more like, stuck on the default,
going in a loop.

the member of the family
stuck in a guest room.
the little kid, trying to sleep—
waiting for a lullaby or a nighttime story.

a black hole, absorbing its own self,
it's been far too alone, on its own.
a long, long night, waiting for a sunrise—
something the world despised, but not anymore.

a dead eulogy with rhyming words.
a piece of broken ceramic, held up by mud.
pieces of fabric cinched together
with needles and stitches,
pinned across words that once shattered—
on a corkboard, decorated in a fancy manner.

a building that collapsed once
during a 5.5 magnitude earthquake—
rebuilt, but never been the same since.

the perfect interpretation is hard to find.
my heart is like a glass toy
in the hands of a child,
a burnt forest that symbolizes ashes and rebirth,
an old woman close to taking her last breath,
yet smiling to the world.

a home to those who didn't belong,
race of the misfits, who all won.

it's just an *****,
something i need to pump blood and to survive—
and yet it feels like an ironical mess of words,
philosophical in its own existence.

i love this heart of mine.

i see a mass standing in front of the mirror—
a human, perhaps.
i can't call her a girl.
she doesn't have the attributes—
enough to be called all that.

it's a reflection,
undeterred,
simply wretched.

there are marks on the mirror—
proof it hasn't been cleaned.
i wonder if they're on my body too.
i hope the glass has enough cracks
to hide and tell
how it feels every time
i discover the same wrecked look
staring back.

the skin is loose
around a few different hooks,
feels like it's sagging—
i pull so hard,
hoping i'll tear through.

i feel nothing but pain
for her,
hidden beneath all that disgust—
the turmoil i'll put her in,
the self-hatred.

and to think—
she’s just become
a black mass
of everything and nothing.

a loathsome, foolish little being
that can’t fit,
can’t talk,
can’t sit.

she’s not the ideal.
and sometimes i think
her existence
isn’t for the world even—

she’s just a scandal.

quite a few severe misconceptions
hey! seriously, that's how you can summarize my life for me!
beyond the glitter, the actual bones of the beast
ugly, somehow disgusting, but they make me up, me.

i sometimes wonder, if i could be poetry
perhaps? – actually we'll scratch that.
i will be overlooked, as this usually is.
will you still write me?

no, i don't want you to write to me
or write on me – though i wouldn't mind
if i could carry it everywhere i'm ought to be.
but still –
write me. write about me.
all that i am, all that i could ever be.

there's multiple, many – oh god, a vast multitude
that i wish to talk about to any.
literally, whoever bothers to listen – and to see.
well, mainly to see, to not go over just once
and simply forget me.

i feel like – i might be a pathological liar
and a people pleaser.
but is it too wrong? wanting to be seen?
and not just as a trophy you can bag anytime,
or a passing moment, when life has you bored in its rhyme,
or even worse – someone just for the pleasure.

will you notice me?
heed to my voice and all that resides within me?
you know what. i think this was enough of 'me'.

the "almost" kind of hurts, you know.
it's always been just that.
at least for me, that's where my clock stops.
i hear about how you like me,
hear about how you want to try it out on me –
why is it always, "the almost of us"
with you & i and i & them?
why does it always have to end?
(even before it has began)

perhaps i indeed am that one tale,
kind of like the midnight rain.
they say they do cherish my existence –
but they never stay up, at least in most cases,
or bother to listen.

i can't focus, or give you my all –
i know that's a flaw at my side.
one that i wish i didn't have to follow like a rule,
settled in the hymns of my body and my life.

this, to the "almost of us" –
why do you always just... give up?
leaving me halfway,
like i'm not even worth the wait.
never did you want to know, maybe,
what really lies at the end of this race.
(will you regret, if i were to say, there weren't a lot of opponents for you to go against, per se?)

being wanted is what i've required –
to be asked for, to be known,
to be understood, not to be shown.
i hear about it in the books
and in the movies and different tales of the hues
of others’ vastly nerving stories –

how when someone likes you,
it lights up this part of you
that almost resembles the feeling of being desired – finally!

contrast is jarring though.
i see you, realize – wow, you see me too?
and yet almost always –
almost wanted, almost pursued, almost something.
and then a beautifully cherished, salty little nothing.

am i really not enough?
or did i do something wrong?
i did pay heed to your existence
even though i might have missed my own.

the unspoken loss –
one that i didn't require.

you know it hollowed me out a bit.
oh, who am i kidding –
it took all of me from me.
maybe you too liked the idea of me,
and not who’s real.
i know it is kinda messy.
at least that's how it's always been with me.

i have always had a habit
to press on those tiny little bruises –
so soft in nature, hurt a bit.
just always the right way, they hit.

i didn't even ask for you or them.
and yet –
the way you fumbled
and had me finding the sweet little nothings.

sigh, i guess i'll just admit
i want to be chosen.
there. the truth out for the world to see.
(i'll hide it to my death and never let you close to me)

i wish you'd pursued me with intention –
and not always the almost trying
only to give up before the trying even came close.
it left me crying, you know.

it's always – the spark that they leave.
never enough to light up a fire.
and then they find flaws within me.
why am i attacked, i wonder?

all i wanted was some real connection.
what of it when i scream
for all those who hear –
you have no right to drop bread crumbs
and leave me to clean them up.
i won't, as i never have.
but please, just once – notice me.
and don't treat me like an ant
like you did to others whom you've had.

everything's worth trying,
one way or the other.
everything's got a fruit waiting –
if you're willing to not just give up.

i ain't just shallow –
feel too deep.
trust me, this isn't something i've wanted.
yet you leave me with the same question,
as they always do –
why am i the one hurting,
when i didn't even ask for anything, or specifically you?

sometimes i'm afraid –
what if i'm being the particular "pick me"?
but i promise to never show vulnerabilities,
even though i speak a lot.

you might call me arrogant,
but all i've done is exist
and ask for something in return –
to cover all that i am,
all behind the makeup on the bruises of my existence.

too much, too cold, too confusing –
i ain't any of those.
but i wonder if i'm worth choosing.

some say i'm that poem
someone doesn't know they remembered
and made memories with until it's too late.

is it too petty of me
to give you such chances and options
again and again?

what's hard to digest though –
is here, the truth written in the blood of my pain,
and all the cuts that you've given me to aid.

they will forever look at me in a particular way –
and half of them who heed to me,
it'll be because they require the things
they need from the kind of me.

never has anyone asked me the questions
i wanted them to ask –
like things that shaped me,
or the ones i liked truly.

the ones i'd love, to be honest,
if it's with someone who stays.
i'd want to be with them throughout
and share those little eye contacts and loving stares.

i need depth.
want to be asked, not just seen.
maybe again, i'm asking for too much.
please forgive me.

i wore the sun for you –
yet you chose the rain.
the same rain i used to be,
but it was one during the day
and not the midnights like i usually erupted.

too much for you to handle.
i wish you'd accepted.
needed no spotlight – just some care.
someone to notice, someone to lend a shoulder.

yet left behind, almost always.
but what can i even say
when it's always been – "the almost of us."

i'll withdraw in silence,
just to be looked at the same way as any other.

might be complex, chaotic – miserly at times,
what if you indeed realize
i'm just barely anything, not even like any other?

is there any place anywhere
where i can fit –
where i belong the most?
perhaps not, perhaps the answer's a never
but i wish you'd loved and chosen me – at least once
just so for once i could feel something
other than just always being the ghost.

there's hope in goodbyes
as they say, a chapter ends —
a new one begins.

but i've come today with a different tale —
take it as a story,
a broken poem,
or an unsent mail.

got a couple good phrases,
jumbled up —
only i know the feeling.
can't seem to sense entirely
their origin,
and so i'll try to pen them down,
hopefully bring them a meaning.

no, i ain't broken-hearted,
and no, i ain't going through the same period —
but this comes from the perspective of all those.

let me specify —
a character from the movie i recently watched,
a person on the roadside i walked upon,
a stray cat who waited —
since forever, it seemed —
for her babies to talk,
and millions of those
who waited for something
that wasn't there at all.

a closure.
an answer.
a little bit of understanding.

but here i am,
left to question it all —
especially your disappearance.

those unanswered texts,
the quiet ache,
the agony of play pretend.
ghosting, the new age calls it —
was that even an ending?

there's a bittersweet melancholy,
hoping for something that's barely there,
yearning with the i'm doomed realizations,
and the gentleness with which grief
seems to give me a hug —
it is rare.

i'd wished it could be like
waiting for letters in a war —
knowing they would meet the soldiers
even in their fall,
knowing there was someone writing,
waiting upon them.

i've never been waited for,
held,
promised —
been just a lost cause.

the world resonates with such:
echoes of conversations,
words left unspoken,
unseen messages
pretending to be left unread.

people fading from each other's lives
like mist in the mornings,
fungi growing on breads.

i've talked to silence,
left by my own.
quite a few said goodbye,
most left me forlorn.

i stayed —
same places,
old memories,
holding onto things
that didn't plan on returning.

the destinations became ghosts of the past —
yet i kept writing to the same addresses.

a few didn't even leave —
just faded
into sweet little nothings.

hope, hope,
oh this dear solitude —
hope remained despite the static.

i'm stitching this up
with the remnants of what i once was.
this ain't no monologue,
written in the melancholy of not chosen —
left for yet another job.

an irony,
a metaphor,
no reasons — just because.

i intended to keep it
as a piece
that reminded me of being haunted —
with the memories,
and the facts,
and the presence of a human
that held me to the edge.

and yet,
i find no anger,
no resentment,
no ill will —
no praying of curses to befall and end them.

there's only love,
perhaps longing —
belief that if it existed,
it had the right to be termed
as ended.

only if there was a full stop —
just like at the end of phrases,
sentences,
and even chapters —
a single dot.

it could have helped me move on.

but no —
i'm left,
standing in the middle
after being promised to be met halfway.

never intended to be here —
i'd said so in the first place.

one-sided letter,
bonding,
or heartache.

there's acceptance in solitude.
i'll wear the letters of goodbye,
despite knowing
you never said it.

please don't return
only to tell me —
despite no closure —
it was the silence
that aged.

i've used pain to combat grief
perhaps i'll forever be a broken radio,
humming the same old tune
on the same old default settings.
no one to repair, not one soul to listen.
but i promise to play that random night
when u need the same old comforting,
the same old recurring.

there’s something akin to nuts and bolts in my heart, i think.
sometimes i wonder if it’s made out of stone,
or if it’s a machine.

feelings are messy —
and even though the world gave them names,
i can’t match the descriptions,
so i just rename.

something within sometimes pinches too hard.
i’m left wincing,
rubbing at my chest
as if it’ll soothe my past.

i intend to move on — that, i do —
but i can’t put it into words,
can’t explain why i am just because.

"i wasn’t always like this" —
but this?
i don’t know which version of me i speak of.

i’m worried.
deathly worried, more so.
but i just want to keep existing,
’cause —

what if there’s someone out there
willing to oil up these corkscrews in my brain,
have it speak to my heart,
make it make me speak —
and spell it all out?

i intend to find a love.
a mate.
’cause if i was born with something that intends to hurt,
i can’t believe
i was born without someone
who intends to heal
and aid.

i've heard of leaving pieces of your soul
at places, with people, in memories and in hopes
and i think i did leave a quiet few of my own.
just a day ago, i left a few pieces of my soul
up there, when we began the trip—
went to a place that resembled a heavenly dip.

i wasn't alone, with two certain someones i'd grown
to like, in a while—
and no, let's just keep it romanticized.
we'd walked throughout the destination,
it wasn't our final,
and i'm sure they'd see through the above line
to find the name of the movie we'd watched together.

the walk, the talk, the silence, the show—
entirety of it, i just wondered one thing:
will i forget this,
or will it be engraved
by the time it's night and i move to a  new tomorrow?

the car rides,
to the movies,
the desi rickshaw and the tell-tale sign of a bonding—
i don't know if we're close enough.
surely they are—i admire them so.
didn't get it filmed for way too many reasons,
but i wish i'd done them both:
recorded the way they were,
just existing, unknown to the storm here within.

while one thought, the other said.
while one fumbled, the other bled—
out words and emotions,
way too direct
for someone like me,
who chokes on a mere breath.

if it were possible to engrave it to their souls,
tell them how till the end—
i only hoped.

we'd eaten,
and it didn’t feel the way it does with people
i'm new with.
i wonder if they felt it too.
it was more than just fun or something worth remembering.
so much more.

and that thunderstorm—
the way the dust carried through the winds,
and then i saw the sky burst
into a million little streams of light and of thunder.

the rain fell, and it lingered—
the feeling to cherish,
to live,
to breathe,
and to exist—
in that very moment.
to open my heart
and pour out all the blood it carried,
to open up and let the world consume—
as i lay down and relished
all that took place around me:
their voices,
their laughter,
the dreams i had
once i was in a disaster.

i've only wanted to perish away before,
to hide,
to be thrown in a current so deep,
i need not float anymore.

and yet, somehow i found
something akin to glitter
underneath my skin—
as we dashed through the wet steps of the temple,
barefoot,
each pair of eyes shadowing a glimmer.

and as i wished in front of all the lords,
"i do not know how to do this—
i haven’t trusted you enough in a while,
but i'll just ask,
like the greedy little thing i am—
keep the ones around me happy and safe,
and i shall accept you,
and want for you again."

and i had tears gathering in my eyes.
for a second, i thought i'd cry.
"please don't make me speak."
but they did.
and the tears got replaced by a smile.

i've smiled a lot,
in their company.
i don't know—
all the way back,
a smile that seemed to last.

and we settled outside the temple,
sitting,
breathing in—
i watched them.
watched the way their eyes swam,
watched the way the sky held
all those streaks resembling the roots of a tree.
and i realized,
my roots now went too deep—
and i couldn't move,
couldn't speak.
wanted to say so much,
but i held it all within me.

there was a lot that i felt in the moment.
as the wind grazed my skin,
felt its caress leave a warmth at my feet—
"oh, but i love you so."

too protected to be seen as vulnerable,
couldn't hold it as well as i usually handled—
it must have shown,
the silence that i got on.

we walked through a route,
a secret garden
resembling the world of nowhere—
and for the first time that night,
i didn’t want it to end.

we talked,
i heard mostly—
all i had to share was how disintegrated i was.
(please hold me.)
didn't say a word along those lines.
the newly found hope had me positive,
and i let it cover me whole.

forgot to test out the theory
of whether "do shadows turn darker when they overlap?"
a line from a favourite movie.
oh, it was a perfect day.
how i wish i had more of that.

sitting, breathing in the moment,
walking beside,
behind,
in between—
i loved all that.

i don't think i'll persist in their memory
(lord, i wish i do).
for they're stuck in mine,
and i can't seem to move on.

and yeah, this is kind of a confession,
but no, it isn't that of love.
i barely know what love is,
but i want to,
just because.

heard this man say,
"you live only for four days—"
the fifth, he asked from beside.
i looked at him,
and then at the one who was in front of me.
didn’t see his expression,
but i know he'd gotten hit too.

"the fifth is for the lord.
the world loves you,
and there's nothing that you can grip onto."

but how do i accept it,
when it's all i've been searching?
in the middle of an ocean,
i didn’t even realize i was floating.

the chains seemed heavy,
pulling down in that second—
yet i didn't let go of that invisible string.
let the man say,
"there's nothing from people.
you come, and you leave.
if you've got money,
they talk and they preach."

what of hope?
and what if trusting you is my choice—
keeping it is yours?
what of love,
and what of bonds?
i’ll take those to my grave.

please keep away the suffering of the world,
and i'll rest indefinitely,
despite what's at stake.

the car ride back was enlightening—
it was so dark,
the air conditioning turned off.
i sat in the front,
listening to music they played from the back.
heard them laugh,
smiled to myself.

looked out the window
and hoped perhaps the wind would carry me now.
i felt so light,
so heavy at the same time—
the irony,
the metaphor i can't admit.
i like being tangled in words.

second time,
i didn’t want it to end.
and he said so,
and i know the thought so.

from listening to music that spoke
more than the tunes did,
i looked all around,
taking the beauty of destruction after the storm—
and hoping perhaps that they will too.

could we enter a time loop
and have the day play out on repeat
for the rest of my life
and forever, if more?

near to my place, i got out.
missed out their words yet again.
wanted to say,
"love you, take care—see you both—let's do this again."
said,
"enjoy, don't die, good night and sweet dreams" yet again.

and i walked the length back to my apartment.
saw the dark—
it felt like comfort,
reminding me this was my place
in the world.

it's my pov,
the third person in the room
floating somewhere,
watching it all take place in a loop.

i didn't want the night to end.
but it did.

and so here i am,
sitting the next day with tears in my eyes,
holding this newly found attachment
to life and a certain few—
about whom i ain't so certain
whether they'll hold in the long run.

but here i am once again,
hoping there'd be a repeat.

because i did comment to his,
"what if this is the last time like this?"
and i said,
"the next one will be better then."
can’t say i believed in it much myself,
but i'll keep hoping—

because hope and love can't be killed.
love comes easier than hate.
the former, we're born with;
the second is fed.

hope comes from love,
and i just love to hope
and hope to love.
so i hope you do too—

something better,
something in the future,
something—
even just once more.

maybe it'll be a repeat of the day yesterday,
or even a better one
to remember the day after.


i couldn't bleed out to death
to prove the amount of laughter
i've carried etched in my skin.
i've got it crawling up my shins,
couldn't admit till the very end—
i left a piece of my soul,
perhaps a few more.
up there, everywhere,
all all the places i'd gone to.
but especially,
the highlights of it all—
with them,
both.

i didn't really want the night to end,
at least, it seems so after all.

i hold the blade over my wrist.
it's not that sharp, merely a paper cutter.
but i know it'll do the work.

i graze it down, bring it up,
over and over, in seven different spots.
parallel lines seem too far.
i crosshatch.
i draw over my arm—on the inside, upfront.

blood pools on the blade,
in my lap.
and i look up in the mirror.

the smile i have is wild,
uncaring,
not listening to the pleas outside.
they fall on deaf ears as i chuckle to myself,
press down on the blade with my thumb,
let it cut both ways.

deep. deeper. a bit more.
red springs up,
one by one,
more and more,
until skin is covered in a rouge so pretty.

someone is screaming.
i'm not listening.

my vision blurs.
the smile etches into a perfect grin.

hah. told you i was no coward.
i've done this before.
i do it tonight.

the screams—hers—
the one caged within, hurting.
i'm a part of her.
she just doesn't understand.

all i gotta do is prove you wrong.
i'm no weakling.
been doing this for a while.

so why not go for the other arm?
you know—
just to prove you wrong.

i don't like being stared at,
or glorified,
or looked at like i'm just a showpiece—
almost like a mannequin?
like i'm supposed to do your bidding,
or abide by your ideals.

i don't like being looked at
the way one would look—
when they're judging you for the smallest of hook,
the tiniest of details.
no, you're just aggravating—
there's nothing romantic about that stare.

kinda like—
the difference between being seen
and just looked at on the surface.
what is wrong with my brain,
why can't you seem to judge that?

i wouldn't despise it
if you were to give me the longing glances,
or the ones filled with care,
the kind where i know
they wouldn’t just drift top to bottom—
like fingers on a shiny sphere.

don't objectify me.
i know my worth,
even though i forget it sometimes.
it's a vulnerability
i intend to show.

i’m not the prettiest—
that still doesn't give you the right to know.
i hold the discomfort,
i hold my identity.
feels like shattering,
the moment a wrong glance or a finger
touches any part of my skin.

it's complex.
i don't think you'll understand it.
i'm a human—
not a model,
not an art piece
held up for judging.

you know they’d look at the one you love
the way you do at me right now,
when i tend to swerve.
the severity of it— you wouldn’t know.
what it's like to be criticised,
judged,
given looks everywhere you go.

i still don't understand
why i face them.
more than half come from lust,
and barely a few from the place of love.

i don't shake hands,
afraid of what i’ll touch,
what you’ll feel—
and later think about.
god, i shiver at the mere thought.
too much.

i could be worshipped,
held by the right hands,
but the wrong eyes,
and the wrong views—
they almost always
**** up this land.

can't walk,
can't talk,
can't laugh,
can't show.

if i'm to exist like a stone,
why can't i hurl back
and simply clone
all that you’ve done
and all that you’ve said?

i've got those stares creeping up my skin,
like slithering worms underneath my shin,
smothering me from the inside, like being smoldered in heat.
i feel like i might melt, or worse, fade away into nothing.
perhaps it wouldn't be so bad of a choice, if i'm to disappear.
for it is this feeling that sears, within and carries a scream.
sheer mockery, provided the serenity with which you return that gaze.
i hate you, i hate each one of you that's made me feel bare,
and not the way i'd want to be emotionally with the one whom i hold tender,
but the way— the way— the way—

oh please, let me just disappear.

don’t look at me
if you only wish
to see me as an object.

just a simple question,
dressed as a metaphor —

where do i get buried
when i can barely breathe on this earth?
kind of like a suffocation so deep,
filling my very being —
in my veins.
oh, i feel so weak.

invisible cuts bleed,
a kind of self-punishment.
spent so long handing out pieces of myself
like fragile offerings
to daily otherworldly deities —
hoping to provide
even an inch of comfort
that i usually needed.

was it ever enough?

yet called names, looked at in strange ways —
speculated every moment,
like a statue in an odd place.
as if they see through it all —
all the façade
of being high up on the clouds.

humorous, it shall be,
if they were to see
the stricken sounds i make —
grief-filled,
and vowing to never
ever let a pair of hands
hold my heart again.

this bleeds.
aches so tenderly —
like trying to whisper through a scream,
like trying to write to a hollow
that doesn't seem to cease,
like an overflowing cannon
that just never really spills.

will this be seen
as that quiet, raw, untamed beauty?
beast-like,
trying to hold it
within the grasp of stiff hands?

have they felt a little less alone?
perhaps in my company —
for i wouldn't want them to go
into the same feelings
of never being heeded to.

i wished they'd see,
but i'm walked all over through.

can't help it —
yeah, i know.
always left wondering:
why can't i comfort
with words
as they're meant to?

they feel like smoke and silence —
barely hard to describe
or to put down.
the heaviness
heaves a sigh
every time i spread my arms
a bit around.

maybe connections are hard.
maybe i should be quieter.

speaking has never helped —
perhaps i should tie
my hands,
my feet,
my mouth —

and vanish?
disappear?
become a ghost without a heartbeat —
because i haven’t really
been living either.

will you listen to the echoes
of these voices —
and the way they sound
in the night,
and when the sun dawns,
and the skies align?

will you see?
will you listen
to me?

dearly beloved,
we are gathered here today
to celebrate the memorial
of those who we were
at one point in time,
those we became
as the world continued to chime,
and those we shall be
when the clocks stop ticking—
like the tune of that one track
in your head
that just doesn't seem to stop hitting.

we are settled here today
to welcome the peace we've desired,
the love we've forgotten,
and the happy akin to the sunshine
on flowers surrounding our graves.

we will succumb to the fire and air
as we're provided with,
based on our actions and tribulations,
we're pardoned with.

tangle of bones in the dust,
holding engravings
of those who marked each other—
the soulmates and the friends alike.
none can ever witness it,
but in the pale moonlight.

"and i shall stay with you,
holding hands, keeping close,
when the angels in front of us
sing a rhyme
that presents before us
the days we barely awaited
all this time.

since we met,
knowing we were to separate,
i shall hold you every time,
in each moment,
even if it is to berate.

no matter if it's the end—
if that's what it means
to live by, 'till death do us part'.
i shall do it again and again,
this destiny or the afterlife,
reckoning in all its might,
will do it again,
with all my heart,
even if you were to leave me & depart."

i've got something,
a feeling of all sorts

if there's anything i have learned
through the entirety of my growth
it's to know and understand
and find the right moment
where i have to twist and wring and pull
such a tight knot in my chest,
just so none of my feelings
would sleep anywhere close
to those they are concerned for
or took birth 'cause of

barely tried for 407 hours,
simply gave up

always a mix and combination of almost
never the forever
always a something,
never the nothing's everything

i will wring out my heart
until every single drop
of this newly found heartbreak
breaks me from within
and does not seep
into anyone else's thought

but what if i meant
i wanted to disappear
only to be found
by the one who has enough time
and enough want
to actually search for me?

some days i despise
having this weak, old, ratty heart
that is attached to the tip of my finger,
not even the sleeves—
and slips itself
into the pocket of anyone
who so much as breathes

do not despise the love i feel
(even though doing the gulp of acceptance
is like drinking lemon
straight from the pet it's found in.)

i imagine people
bundled up in grief
of words that they have carried over years—
of things that could not become theirs
of the beings they could have been,
had the world been a bit easier

pain, so pretty

i see them as bundles,
carrying ropes twisted around their guts,
visibly being mocked by all those
who roam light and agile in their lives
the ones adding to that burden

the grief-added mind
carries us so drifted and quick
almost floating through life
but what of the drowning
that this heart undergoes

having shattered so many times,
it has lost all the hopes
and so it gets filled up to the brim
leaks out, seeps into—
and the skin so tender and bruised,
everything cuts a little too deep

sleep is a cacophony

i think i peeked inside the wiring of my brain
for a couple of seconds today
you know it is like—
there is a hole at the very centre
that has a very solid boundary
the outer layer has got hooks and daggers
and things pinned and across

but what is the worst
is the chains and ropes surrounding it
holding that part in the very middle,
at the very centre
and every time they twist and pull,
it does not hurt
but the ache goes a bit numb

and it feels so numb
that sometimes i want to
drown in burning water,
stand under the coldest shower,
eat molten lava,
or consume ice until my mouth burns
just to feel something—at the very least

and it has existed forever
but on days that are hard
it gets ugly
sears in its loneliness
like a deep hollow
resounding with the echoes
of a whale in the ocean

pain so beautiful
so undeterred, unspoken
a telltale so enchanting
it brings you in, soaks you deep
leaves you ragged,
with nothing to sleep with
except for constant nightmares
or even worse—
the dull ache in your existence

yet pain so pretty
because it makes you feel.

because to be honest,
i did not know where to start
no beginning, then how could it end
what do you mean pain is constant?
but when it heightens,
something in my brain hits just right
and i turn into the next be-****** poet

this time it is a mess of stuff—
like things piled up in the corner of your room
and overlooked for long enough
except one day you are trying to find something in them,
sort of like something to balance you
but instead it triggers you
and you realise you are just lost

it outs me,
and puts me in a spot
one that i oh-so
despise to talk about