If I could be among the stars,
Maybe I'd then be able to read your mind.
Maybe then, when you close your eyes and your lips part, I'll know what you wish for.

If I could hear your thoughts,
Maybe then I'd know what you think about when you are lonely,
How you and your mind amuse each other.
What plays on your mind when the radio hums in the background in your car.

If I could hold your hand,
Maybe then I'd know how what people say affects you,
And when your fingers try to play hide and seek with mine, I'll always be the one seeking.
Maybe then, I'll know whether I'm the only one who is seeking.

If only I could find you,
All this would blur away and I'd be able to live every moment as if it were the last.

the feeling is distinct to my chest
it's a harsh pang at first
and then a dull ache

and then your neglect of it all,
a minor oversight,
an 'it'll pass'

and then you're mulling over it on one of your could-be best days
the thought, the insignificance of it, brews within you
you think, maybe I could have dealt with it

but the feeling is so serene on nights
that are scarce of sleep
the watchman stomps his stick, just bravado
and the lights outside cast shadows on your wall

should draw the heavy curtains, don't want to wake up at dawn
but dancing shadows conjure up dreams of ballet and chronicles of dark forests and savage men

just things I don't know much about
but the feeling seems to gain irrelevance over this all

and one afternoon, I'll be up on the roof, my hair sprawled over the dust of the floor and the feeling will be back and the rosy laziness of the 3PM sunset will be gone.

My heart should ache but it doesn't.
My head should hurt but it doesn't.
My soul should yearn but it doesn't.
Instead, my lips quiver.
Dancing to song of freedom.

I can't seem to find the right words.
I can hear my heart beating in my ears.
It's so faint, I convince myself to believe that it isn't my imagination; which had allowed me to feel it on my fingertips or in my knees or on my lips.
I can feel each neuron lighting up from the nape of my neck to my crooked elbow.
I can smell the sound of falling in love.
But I can't seem to find the right words.
I want to let the world hear the overwhelming scent of fear.
I want to let the world know how it feels to live someone else's breakup, how my heart learns to beat rhythmically after 17 years.
But I still can't seem to find the right words to explain everything I'm feeling.
I try to put it together but it never fits.
Like the hyperpigmentation on my thighs, the red spots in my eyes and the sobs in my cries.
Bear with me a little longer while I try to piece this puzzle together or we could hold on to this feeling forever.
Whichever it may be, decide, while I struggle to find the right words.

Self-pity glows within me as red as your tongue, when poison drips off of it.

You spill my deepest agony as if it's a secret you can't hold in.

Your vile words twisting my elbow a little each time.
But my crooked elbow never seems to break.

Just like my unending need to tell you my aches.

Each time you choose your words wisely. Or how else could you remember what would bruise me the most.

However, absolution comes easy because you never held yourself guilty, and what worth am I to question the great?

The one who swallows despair but spits bane.

I think of you when my feet get cold but my body is burning,
when the blanket slips off my toe.

I think of you when the sky cracks open in pain,
and its tears drip into the drains.

I think of you in an empty apartment,
every crevice a possibility.

I think of you in every word I write,
each word a love letter in disguise.

I think of you in unsent text messages,
saved in my notes only to be deleted by shame.

I think of you in blinding bright colours,
when you are in fact an achingly dull grey.

Line by line, I recite the words in my head.
A sword to their mighty pen,
changing me into something I don't want to be.
Making me question me.
And I desist but give.
And receive nothing but heartache.

Why is it that I can't seem to remember the heartache.
Why can I forget but not forgive.
Is it possible to always be in wrong.
To always be the one to cause trouble.
To be the caught in the web but not eaten.
I see it coming, its legs moving, my body itching like it's already touching me.

And I still give.
And they still don't see it.
What morphs their view of me?
Is it the pain etched across my face that they comprehend to be...
What do they comprehend it to be?

"Just smile more often."
And I recite it again.
And still continue to give, in the hope to receive one day; something that might fill this void of infinite benevolence.

I do not belong
I do not belong to a place
I do not belong to a home
I do not belong to a person
I do not belong to a thing
I do not even belong to myself.


I wonder if I was born to exist without purpose,
without control over anything at all.
To come and then go.
As commanded.
And to be okay with it.
Like everyone is.

And I force it some days.
Because I feel terrible but I can't let it out.
And it goes on and on like a song that you put on repeat after hearing it the first time.
And it's there. The teary eyes vouch for it.
But it doesn't stain my face. And I want it to. So bad.
Not because I want people to notice my pain.
But because I hate that it won't let go of me. Like the tiny mole on my finger; no matter how much I pick on it.
It's like when Pooh bear mutters, Think think think and he taps his forehead each time, focusing on the act rather than the thought.
And some times I wonder whether I could lead a life as simple as that.
With not a care in the world of all these needs.
Not having to feel so strongly about being lonely but also loving being alone.

Please let this breath be the last.
Then I won't have to live another second.
It'd be my last thought,
My last blink,
My last heartbeat,
My last worry,
My last last.
It would all come to an end.
But there are terms and conditions.
Terms to be met and conditions to be fenced.
I wish I'd disappear into non-existence.

Somedays, it physically hurts to smile.
It seems as if my entire body is against the idea of making me feel enough.
It seems as if no matter how much I beg for forgiveness, it won't be enough.
It seems as if my mind decided to let my demons take over and my heart played along because it couldn't see the shadows that followed.
It seems as if even if I could change every turn that was taken, it'd lead to the same path of inconsequential pain.
It seems as if even if I wrote down every feeling that could be felt in the most simplified manner, it'd be irrelevant.
It seems as if every time things blurred up, it wasn't just the tears but my amygdala trying to numb the pain.
But I Know that more than anything it is I that wants to not smile because it I'd rather hurt emotionally than physically.