इस कदर मुहब्बत हो गई है हमे अपने अकेलेपन से, की अपनी परछाई से भी छिपने के लिए आड़ ढूंढ़ते रहते है.
ढूंढ़ती रही में एक कोना जहा कुछ देर  सकू, लेकिन मेरी  परछाई  वहां भी साथ आ गई.
साथ आ गई तो ठीक है , साथ ले आई मेरा वजूद, मेरी पहचान, और वो नियम जिनसे में भागना चाहती थी,
और ले आई साथ वो नाम जो मेरे प्यार का दुश्मन है।
मेरा प्यार, वो अकेलापन जिसे ढून्ढ रही थी में हर जगह और जब मौका मिला की कुछ देर रो कर गुजार लू में उसके साथ,
तो मेरी परछाई साथ आ गई.

If only you could hear my pain,
You would hear my cracking joints and screams, in vain.

If only they changed colors; You would see three: Black, Red, and Blue,
Covering my body through and through.

Alas! It doesn’t work that way,
So, I have to get up from my bed.
Put my make up and pretend,
This isn’t that bad or, it’s not the end.

But the tears trickle down, out of control,
Silently, no noise that you can hear.
A trickle dripped down on my cheek,
I see round a drop of pink tear.

He was barely two feet tall.
When I pressed his mouth, he couldn't scream at all.
I pushed him on the floor and,
He took a tiny, ineloquent fall.

His voice muffled and shrieks inaudible.
He tried to cry, but the tears couldn't trickle.
I scared him, not knowing my mind was fickle.
Scars - Red, Blue, Green.
I, blackened his soul,
Through, his red checked shirt and ruffle.

He loved, he loved flowers,
Rose, lilac, sunflower, and lily.
Strewn, in one garland, all of them, his dreams.
While he was chasing the butterflies, happily.
I threatened him to be quiet, or I would **** his family.
And he dearly loved his sister Emily.


He stayed tongue-tied and mum.
With every hit and blow, he turned voiceless and numb.
Good for me that he was dumb.
Or was he?


He died, and I didn't realize that I killed him.
Until

Years later when I met a monster,
Whose face seemed familiar.

He hurt me, He hurt me badly, and I shrieked WHY?

He started the sermon,
About the child, I killed once and gave birth to a demon.

Cigarette buds, wine glasses, and hazy memories.

Unfinished conversation, people.

Room a little less Messier than life.

Still, it's difficult to stay alive.

Crushed hair, cloudy Eyes, heavy deep breath.

Broken nibs of pencils.

Twice half-read Sylvia Plath,

Lana Del Rey songs on loop.

Storylines with crushed characters.

Unfinished poems,

Completely finished thinking capacity.

Stained coffee mugs here and there.

Some as old as the blockage in my pen.

Draw me.

I searched on Google because I wanted to be drawn,
with those pencils,
gorgeous sketches,
because I look better colorless,
lifeless,
the way I am.

Drawn like all those girls in sketches,
some laughing,
some looking into Eternity,
some waiting for the death to come.

I would be the last one.

Draw me.

Because I am not pretty enough for them,
to be drawn by anyone.

I will draw myself.

But how long could I be able to be doing things for myself when they are not supposed to be done this way, or maybe they are?

Draw me.

I started learning the basics of drawing and life,
to draw me,
just as everything I always do for myself on my own.