A man is that hard rock,
Born with stiffness and no shivers,
Until it's pressed at the soft point
Between the right fingers.
He starts to feel safe inside your fist,
Listens, nods, and stays right where you are,
Making believe that sunlight is not for him,
Longs for the darkness over your palm.
A sudden thought, on some evening—
His touch gave you ***** ugly hands.
You let him fall from the space in between,
The one who became yours in a single press.
Then he is vulnerable, unseen, and unvalued below those shoes.
People might've noticed, might pick up, but he yearns for you.
A random day, in the park, you see a man—
Alone, squeezed his body at the very right of the bench,
Longing for somebody to stop by, to listen and not mend.
For once, not feeling sorry for him but
His words left your body feeling alone at the very left end.
What his eyes had witnessed, the broken trust he felt—
Hadn't the crushing below those shoes—
What she had.
I'm unrelated, and hesitant—I might say something wrong,
So I sit quiet, making him feel heard,
Hoping it wouldn't get passed on.
May 20, 2025
May 20, 2025 at 3:44 AM UTC
To my memory, I've fallen down the stairs twice
Once I was taken to the hospital, at an age when I wasn't aware of the word fright
The other when the sound of footsteps was taken over by the laughter, while I looked down and silently cried
The first time, there were tears, but there was no shame
I could see the blood, but there was no pain
When my head was wrapped with something white with red blood stains
The other time, it was different
It was the viewers' entertainment
It hurt me more because
As a kid, I've been too used to the sweet words and helpful hands
I decided to wait for someone who's worth the breath I'm saving or stay unloved
So I've seen those hands clapping together but I've also seen my fingers hanging in the air untouched
Because I wasn't looking for a pretend, a friend till it's all said and done
So I've had those empty so-called "stick-around" hugs
I've even tried to be a single person's pleaser
But the tailor never stitched me to be entangled with people
Sometimes the colour doesn't match,
Sometimes the needle picks out the bonded thread
And sometimes I didn't waste my days to find out the reason
Maybe the incidents where I couldn't sleep even in my own house
Or where I couldn't dare to stand alone in the outside crowd
The one which I still can't speak of to myself
Are the reason why I think that "believing in someone" is the shortest route to hell
I am sure everybody has had hard times
And I am not giving the importance to myself
I am not making it all about me
But there's no one, and to you, I'm justifying myself
You can tell how vulnerable I feel
To my memory, I've bought a rose twice
Once, it was never sent; in my hand, it slowly died
The other time, the rose was picked up
But it was sent by me, so it was disliked
Memories don't always bring the joy; sometimes it's best folded
And I'd say to every old me, who's been "never chosen," "left hurt," and "self distorted":
Don't blame your legs, because you couldn't run
Don't blame your hands, because you couldn't paint
Often days, your body will feel burned
Don't blame yourself, if you'll ever faint
Maybe what you've dreamed, you might not get
But a good girl always lives along and appreciates what's been served on the plate
May 16, 2025
May 16, 2025 at 4:18 AM UTC