one day
it will be easier for you to fall asleep
but tonight
its three fifty eight and you are wide awake
even though your eyes are washed with tears
and your heart is numb from pain
one day
you will see the light at the end of the tunnel
at the end of the tunnel
but tonight
you are freefallng
p l u n g i n g
and you're scared because
you can't see your outstretched fingers
and there is nothing to hold on to
one day
you will no longer need to stitch yourself together
as you watch yourself fall apart by the seams
but tonight
you are in tears (again)
and no one is here
to wipe them away
because the numbers you dialled
sent you to voicemail
and maybe
one day
you will be happy again
but its been at least nine months
and the clean slits on your left fist is barely visible
you are at least nine months clean
but you are not okay
you have not been okay
and you're scared shitless because
there are some things that love cannot fix
and this happens to be one of them
but strength, cannot be measured in a protractor
because you are not just a page in my mathematics textbook
hidden in a mess of my room
and perhaps,
you are weak in the strongest sense
because you still care for the ones that
drove the knife against your skin
just as you are strong in the weakest sense
because its four in the morning and no one has returned your call
and you can't seem to stop your angry tears
but you don't reach for the knife
or for the bleach at the kitchen counter
or for the alcohol
and one day,
the pain you carved unto your arms
will one day adorn your skies like constellations because the stars will guide you home
even though its not tonight
or twenty nights from now
or twenty years from now
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 1:53 PM UTC
i have learnt a lot about people;
that people can be weak in the strongest sense
like how ,
even though its three in the morning and the ones you choose to call
sends your calls into the voicemail
so you are completely alone
your thoughts and you,
and you're losing but you refuse to reach for that knife
the next morning, they will ask you why you called
and you will smile and you will say nothing
the cycle repeats
and you will hold on
that is weakness, in the strongest sense
and how people can be strong in the weakest sense
like how some will sweep you off your feet
with the way they say i love you
i love you
i love you before they rip you apart
limb
by
limb
like a tornado
and you will stay
because you love them
at three am, when all is quiet and the storm is gone
you will convince yourself that they love you
and that is being strong, in the weakest way
and maybe that's why
i have stopped dividing people
as weak and strong
because this world doesn't exist in black and white
only different shades of grey
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 6:51 AM UTC
nine months ago,
it was a cut, a tear
and then i'm me again
now, i'm tears on four am nights
and it won't go away
i'm angry, and sad then angry again
i'm not me
and i don't know where to look
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 8:27 AM UTC
the next time you say
"no one loves me",
remember how its like to have a fever
don't reach the glass of water your throat is thirsting for
close your eyes for a little bit
and see your body for what it is
it is a warzone
and it is fighting to keep you alive
because it loves you
it doesn't know what you are
who you are
what you have done
but with every cut you etch across your skin
as if you are trying to erase your mistake
it heals you as if it is
trying to tell you
you are worth it
you
are
worth it
even if you don't think you are
even if everyone else doesn't think you are
so if you are looking for unconditional love,
reach for that glass of water - clench your thirst
pull that blanket over yourself
sleep knowing that your body loves you, even if you don't love you
tomorrow,
everything will be okay
hold on a little bit.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 7:30 AM UTC
its tiring to hold onto things
that don't want to be held on to
in the same way, it is terrible
to hold onto memories
because they are scars that ache on rainy days
sometimes i wish that i can stop holding onto them
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 12:52 PM UTC
before you can learn to love yourself
you must first self-destruct
you must tear yourself apart and feel pain pulsing
in your blood, like toxic waste
before you can learn to love yourself
you must first know
how it is like to hate yourself
and every moment
until you want to erase every trace of yourself
from this planet
before you can learn to love yourself
you must learn to hate yourself
because they are two sides to the same coin
but some never get there
some end up six feet under, buried under
cruel human beings who pretend to care
but never do.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 7:05 AM UTC
i don't care
i don't care
i don't care
i say with a straight face
as i click past pictures
on facebook
i don't care
i don't care
i don't care
but it hurts
alittle
that feeling keeps biting
how can i make it go away?
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 2:00 PM UTC
"return goodness with goodness
and viciousness in kind"
whoever says that
has never lived in our world
"I'm fine, it's okay"
no its not.
but no one knows it -
no one truly notices
the way your eyes glaze
over from hurt as the
grip on your shoulder
tighten
no one ever does.
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 9:32 AM UTC
at twelve,
i suffered from eight grade syndrome,
of "getting your heart broken is pretty"
it really isn't.
at twelve,
you barely know enough of love
but at the first sign of abandonment
it hurt so much you don't know
what you should do about it
at thirteen, i met you.
you, with a basketball in one hand
and change in the other;
a fence separating us
it was the first we ever touched,
fingers merely brushing
but it was enough
at thirteen, i watched the stars with you
in an island away from the mainland
i wished that we would always be together
even if we will always
"just be friends"
at thirteen, i burnt my own skin
with a stick of eraser as if i was
trying to erase all traces of myself
in this world
but it wasn't enough -
i was left with wretched scars across my left arms that
i could not explain with
"my dog bit me"
you see, my parents have never liked dogs.
at fourteen,
we weren't friends anymore
so i drowned myself not in tears
but with a bottle of panadol that i found in the fridge
my parents found it (panadol) hidden under the pillow
where instead of the tooth fairy
was the grim reaper
waiting
to take me away
and instead of dying
i had to face a teary grandmother who loved me a little more than
i could ever recuperate
and parents who were less than understanding
i needed a "i love you"
but all i got was "how could you do this to us"
at fourteen, the guilt was overwhelming
so i tried to forget by pressing a pen against a notebook
so hard i eventually bored a hole in it
and when that didn't work out, there was always the rusted penknife that i hid in a shoes box
along with a tear-stained diary of happier times
at fourteen, i tried to move on from you -
put you away like a yellowing photograph i hid in a diary
somewhere
as you masked your pain with a cold shoulder
i was elsewhere, holding hands with a boy
i think that's when i found out
i loved you
in every sense of the word
i think
that's when you realised
that you loved me too.
at fifteen,
i cleaned up that ****** excuse of a life
put the blade somewhere i could never find it
broke up with the person i could never fall in love with
after that cross-country, we called each other
and fell asleep
ears pressed unto the phone
it was the happiest i had been in a long time
at fifteen,
i didn't tell you
"i love you"
even though i wanted to articulate the three syllabus words so badly the past year
it hurt
and although our shoulders barely brushed against each other
across the hallways
and we barely held hands on dates
it was strange
that even if you are in vietnam, melting under the heat
and i am in nepal,
in a hotel room that overlooks mount everest
even if we are miles apart
you are still the only one in my mind
at sixteen,
things were slowly deteriorating:
maybe its the minutes ticking away,
slowly
until the hallways are no longer a place where laughter gathers
or maybe its the stress
of the national exams
we are barely adults and
yet we must decide our futures
as if we don't have 50 more years to decide
what we want as adults
at sixteen,
my friends are no longer friends
the hushed whispers across hallways
is only a prelude that
will eventually spell out a chapter of pain
that will lead me to a penknife
that had rusted in time but was just as sharp
or maybe if not sharper.
at seventeen, things are no longer same.
for one. you were no longer there.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 7:01 PM UTC
but sometimes i get sick of it all -
fighting
trying
i'm just done with trying
to get people to listen
instead of invalidating
my opinions even before
they actually hear me out
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 11:24 AM UTC