standing at the edge
staring over the sky up above
i wear blue, feel the rain on my skin
and wonder how it'd be like
if i were to just give up.

a metaphorical ruin in all its might
pen in hand, smoke coiling in the pit of stomach
a heart that's too tender for this world
bandaids, torn, wasted, blood soaked
scars, numerous, multiple, scalded, searing, borderline rot

a porcelain doll needs to be perfect
glass button eyes that shine like the moonlight
a smile stitched in thread and silk, perfect at all times
strings ought to be pulled, it ought to move perfect
slightest crack in the jaw of disobedience
and cut all the threads that tie her to existence

the hollowed out torso must be snatched tight
fill the empty with the shoulds
stuff it up with cotton
pillowy soft and smooth
fingers held in a perfect swirl
eyelids dunked in silver, lashes painted and curled

they created her with wishes for a different one
she came to life, unbeknownst to the prays of her creators
assuming she was needed, she gave her all
failed—character, turned a bright velvet rot

they failed her
illusioned into thinking a necessity would rise
where she'd be needed
she worked all her life
trying to prove—worth it, worth what even is that?

porcelain lungs kept her weak enough
walked and ran
had her wings stolen, the branches cut just so she couldn't ever grow them again
venom infiltrated her being, yet she kept going
the same, hiding all the vulnerabilities
sometimes, often, trying to encompass
failing—drifting off the shore

she tried, gripped onto the landing's edge
took a step up
trusted the wrong hand
and so she became one among the fallen

she grew
the happy drug, clumsy clownery aiming to attack the hurt
she'd pull the hands of those were too far
those way too down, bringing them up
foolishly empathetic,
she always had the right words

decade over and here she was
realization dawning upon
what was considered normal
had made her mind go wary

she didn't see the same with the other manufactures
hers—just refused to carry
the burden of existence, of not being friends with the other dolls
they dimmed down her brightness,
thunder came upon—and disguised her as the monster

she pulls at herself
disgusted seeing the reflection of what she has
failed to be the doll she should have
became the one they never wanted to brag

thus came upon the search for some mighty
a protector with a sword and shield
racked brains and held hands
asked for genuine—it turned out to be a mine filled land
another facade, disappointment—
it began to feel like nothing
and then numb was all she had

disqualified out of the race of being put up in the stores
kept on the sidelines, with the ones that lose their chores
they were perfect, on the display
built for reasons, developed for anything but treason

she relapsed, they played,
toyed her around
until she grew tired of the dates
repeating themselves, same things over different days

then came the hour—when she ripped herself apart
held what was the soul they'd given her
did it not turn out to be art?

the soul needs nourishment
requires the nutrients of love, of care, of resemblance
protection from the weather, sunshine during the dark
this one dissembled herself to tether

they wouldn't have known
couldn't ever see
was everything at once
nothing at all for eyes to seek

splintered her ribs in trying to breathe through the ties
lived through the silence, getting used—to the voices
chambers of memory, locked away, dissipated
decay of life, once that was held up proud in devotion

affection turned sour, always a hidden meaning
lullabies held infection, becoming a permanent ghost in order to stop
bled in violet
sometimes a black
often there was nothing to bleed
she ripped at that was left

“is it fair
to bleed
upon the ones
who didn't give you the wounds?”

“is it fair
to talk
to let my darkness
come over you?”

you could cower, or fear, or walk away
you could choose to just not listen
i think it'll be better that way
but for me to do the same
i'd have to talk
and talking is not what i can do
so i sit
late nights, after trips
in my bedroom
i lie, halfway on the bed
staring at the glass panes of my balcony
watching it rain
and it rains so good

just a few minutes ago
i was drenched in the tears of the skies
and i felt
i thought i'd cry with it
feel it, let it go
but i cried after it
as if it left something
or
i'd meant to wash out everything that i felt
under the rain, choosing to get drenched
but i think it washed out all the walls that i'd put up
they were false, not strong or tall enough
and so they tore, broke down
and i—once again—bare to the world
i felt it all and let it seep out

i lie on my bed
converses dripping in mud
down my legs
i aim to say i hate it
but right now
i don't care about the mess that it makes
i just continue to read
and write
whatever hurts
and i try to draw
but my hands are clammy
and they shake
i can't take pictures either
feels uncanny

there's a movie playing
it tells me to speak
tells me to move on with commitments
to love and to repeat
it's the need
i can't do it
something's up with me
there's the mess of wiring in my brain
i think somewhere a long long time ago
it got electrocuted with pain
and now i got shocks
in form of feelings

and when it hurts
i tend to rule it out
because it's not worth it
and because i don't deserve it
and i can't accept it
i can't even seem to take it
i wanna be heard
without having to perform

but i think
i'm turning to every single thing
that i thought wrong
a disappointment?
i hope i'm not

the movie however
a quote—
‘if something's eating at you,
you gotta find a way to use it’

so i shall use it
put forward and even go as far as to misuse it
i shall write
just—don't don't don't react, alright?

it wouldn't matter if i disappeared
like i'll be considered a loser by those who term to hold me dear
what will the society say, they'll think of that
not me, cause i just wasn't worth all that

mattering—is a tough achievement
do i? for anyone really? jot down this event
and i try to tell myself all the time
i don't give a ****
but the thing is i do
and i wanna matter
except i'm easily as replaceable
as the piece of paper

i can't speak up when it matters the most
so i tend to let moments just go
and i can't express to save someone's life
i can't do any ****—to save my own, right?
and i absolutely always mess everything up
like chaotic is fine, but being this way—a ****** chaos?

i might be the issue
i feel like i'm nothing

and it messes me up
cause i just spoil things
there's the immense level of sadness
that i carry
it feels like it resides in my bones, way deep behind my eyes
like every time i try to speak
it just doesn't feel right
like i stare, and observe
and i try to understand them
and love

but reciprocated—finding it acceptable enough
is something i'm yet to achieve
and i know they wouldn't bother
honestly, no one does

just don't understand it
like it isn't like i had a bad breakup
or like i lost a family member
or like i was violated that bad
it doesn't feel fair to feel this big dark messy level of sad when life wasn't even that worse
like everyone has it no?

but they told me i feel too much
"if i'm too much
accept me no?"

i feel like nothing
and sometimes i want to give in
to the night
walk away
not look back
become one with the rain
or the sky
or the wind
and just disappear
forever

"i'm fine, trust me
i'll be fine"
i just don't understand it

why have such a sad soul?
why make things sad, when they are entirely whole
every single time
i speak
it's burdening
and i wouldn't do that to my enemies
i don't think i'm doing okay
like i'll be—obviously
"i'm okay"
during moments and hours
but at the end
there's something really wrong with me
like i'm broken? whatever is wrong with me
can't be dealt with
or made just right enough for people to see
i'm not that bad
i feel like i don't deserve to be here
(i wanna take up all the place in your heart
and consume it, not tear it apart)

am i sickening?

i'm not good enough
"no don't say that"
i'm not though
"please don't say that"
i'm not good for anything
"please—the fresh wound and you're too sensitive"

like i don't deserve compliments or anything for that case
and every time someone says
i'm good or i make them feel good
it feels fake

like what do u aim at
what you talk about
i'm pretty sure i'm messed up
a piece that seems to make things up
i can't make jokes but can be the clown
can't make u laugh, but that's what my life's all about
i don't even know how to have fun
or make it fun
boring, sidepiece
overlooked, freaked out, messed up

nothing helps
nothing really
i'm numb
and i feel too much
it's complicated

"i don't wanna feel this way
i don't wanna be this way
i wanna be normal"

every time i write it down
feels like i'm faking
like it isn't even that bad
they still can't see it
i'm in the wrong body perhaps
this isn't me
wasn't who i was
but i write down everything
i'd want people to know
even then i feel judged
it's my own self and the demon on my shoulder

feels so bare though
at times, i want to be alone
but i despise it
being in someone's company
having to pretend it's normal
being myself
getting eaten away, by the paranormal
watching them live and feeling
like why the sadness exists only within me?
where does it come from
do i perhaps have a curse
have i done something really really bad
a long while ago?

writing was my oxygen
now it's become poison
i let it breathe
but it consumes within me like a lochless monster
and it takes up every bit of my skin
i've got words inked, you just can't see cause they're transparently written

could i be invisible
or hide
somewhere, for a while until it feels feasible
to exist again and to breathe without it having feel like there's a big ******* hole
vacuuming all the good, leaving behind all the bad
there's a tightness in my chest

could i bleed, metaphorically?
or physically even—let it seep and stain even the black
will it stop hurting then? every time it feels good

was asked for something positive
could come up with nothing
what even is there
but then i looked at their faces
and they seemed to wonder
oh such dire thinking
we're all kind of messed up?

ask me how i feel
i'd say great
cause i do
at least until i'm silent, for a second
left alone to look around
need help, not okay

"i'm alright
don't worry
it's just
sometimes
it gets too much to carry"

so i put it down

for periods, as it might be
this bag that i've had since a forever,
so bad, it carries all that i mistook for fortune and humor
i get to play pretend
have gotten quite good at that
so i know when you intend to leave
and that you will, cause you have to just leave

can't be bare cause they wouldn't care
so i go along with their desires
especially when they assume
oh you know me?
you love me and care for me?
you wouldn't bat an eye when you see what levels i've achieved
being ****** up
i feel like i don't deserve any of you or this

but i know when things aren't real!
can't even be delusional
i try to be confident
to pretend
but it all seeps out through somewhere
so many wounds
uncountable, invisible
do i wrap them or sew them shut to prove?

i don't know how to be complete
can't go on with this pit of sad
feel like i tend to infect
and **** me, please before i do
i can't infect you with myself too

"ignore this
i'm alright
trust me
speaking the truth
i cried
i'll be done and back to normal in a day"

i feel jealous of the rain
it collects over time, pours until nothing remains
the sky feels lighter
it shines a bit brighter
i just shower under it
would want to wring myself dry like it

i ought to sleep
but there's violet in my hands

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?

Fear teaches me, sort of aimlessly.

Blaming a resilience I wish I'd seen,
The punch I wish I’d been -
A prey I wished I'd hit.

Overshadowing the dopamine I’d like to feel.

Via guilt-induced tears, effortfully shield-building
Via timeless dampening -
I’m nervously standing, brainlessly censoring.

But never has anger crossed that brain,
Never have I ever played this game.

There's something...
infinitely beautiful,
dancing, delicately,
on pulled threads,
across nimble fingers:

the cat's cradle,
between emotional agony,
and mental silence.  

When every tear, is at last, exhausted...
when your lungs, wheeze, fluidly,
from helpless overexertion,
and, gasping for breath,
you turn your cheek, for air,
your pillow:
now, a man-made lake...

the numbness... suffuses,
your entire being.

Loud suffering, falls silent.
Red-rimmed eyes,
become too swollen,
to examine their own pain.

The nothingness blankets you,
in its warmest embrace.
You become swaddled; baby-soft, again,
yet plated, in auric detachment.

...Nothing, can touch me,
nothing,
can inform, my placid heart,
to beat.

in this moment,
I am free, of its emotional trappings.
its threads, can't pin me;
its pull, can't drag me down.

My lips,
shape a smile,
but it only serves, to show...
that it no longer hurts,
to stretch a wooden bridge,
across the gaping void.

...but even so... it's just a band-aid.

It won't fix, what's broken,
and the blood,
will seep through,
the gauze, again.
The pain, will return;
it'll grow knuckles,
that form fists,
which wield knives.

But, for now...
I lay myself, to rest...
blunted, mummified,
in a buzzing swathe,
of pristine, white.........





silence

The Stillness
 
It does not echo.
It does not push, or pull.
It only stretches into the yawning void.
I stare over the edge and think,
What if I went?
 
I do not want this,
But I will not go there.
I am here.
I want to BE HERE.
 
I am floating,
Hovering.
 
There are no voices in the stillness,
Telling me to come.
Telling me to go.
What to think,
What to say,
What to feel.
 
I find solace in the silence—
a...not quite peace.
It's the space between pulses
Where I am not chasing
Or being chased.
 
No demand to perform,
No mask to hold in place.
It's a hush that lets me breathe,
A little something just for me.
 
But I like it here,
Right at the edge of this void.
It's where I can just be.
And wonder,
What if I stay?
 
So I stay...
and find out.

I saw
in the streets —
dead people
walking;
(tiptoeing...)
They’re
not deceased,
nor are they
alive.

I saw
in the streets —
that desperate
hustle;
(grinding...)
They’re
not hungry,
nor are they
satisfied.

I saw
in the streets —
the filthy rich
and the poor;
(begging...)
They’re
not affluent,
nor are they
the *******.

I watched,
and wondered —
am I
one of them
too?

I saw
in the streets —
the appetite
for more;
(hungry...)
They’re
not content,
nor are they
dissatisfied.

I saw
in the streets —
dead people
walking;
(tiptoeing...)
They’re
not deceased,
nor are they
alive.

No one’s
screaming,
but I still
hear the
sirens —
As they
pick up
the dead
people
walking.

Today, I cried at a funeral.

But it wasn’t sadness that did it—
Sadness lounged on the horizon
Too distant to touch.

No, it was the
White-hot, scalding of the spotlight
The eyes, the many eyes, the
Hands pressed to mine, stamping in a
“Sorry for your loss.”
A tattoo, or a brand.

And then I felt it, familiar friend:
The tightness rising like bile, wrapping
Its serpentine fingers around my windpipe,
Around my vocal cords,
Squeezing, squeezing, until nothing but a
Whisper
Remained in my chest, my throat,
My lips, my teeth.

Sadness floated in my periphery, like the
Sun, too bright for me to gaze but the
Tightness lingers close enough to murmur
In my ear,
“You should be.”

I don't
feel anything
at all,
but I feel
it all
at once.
The brokenness,
the misery,
the weariness,
and the shame
are like
being
drenched in silt,
caked in filth,
covered with
life's crud.
I reek
of the living river—
its currents
have carried me
into a sea
of everything.
Now,
I find myself
adrift
in an ocean
of everything
and nothing.