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