“And then, you’d break his heart.’
‘I can’t ever think I could do that. I couldn’t break anyone’s heart.’

You look at me. The tempting colour of your eyes dilates into grey. A blank moment; a break in the cinematography.

At night, I can’t sleep because your smell lingers on me like cheap perfume.
What do I do, what do I do?

I used to think
the heart was only a piece of
paper.
What else?
While you go through the motions,
he and him leave pencil marks.
Scrawls and doodles, just
hasty mutterings in the marginalia.
You know,
those little hearts with
those little initials
you find in little girls' maths books?
Your eyes don't stray from these scribbles,
ever, no, never,
but
you vow to yourself that one day there'll be
ink
scrawled across that paper.
Black or blue
heart-stamp.
Vivid.
And nothing else would matter anymore.

What the fairytale should really say is
once upon a day
he'll walk in and grab that sheet of
paper.
It'll disappear into his coat pocket forever.
And you won't even know it
until
that paper will crumple,
black and blue, black and blue,
out, out, out of his coat
that he's left behind in the closet.

A souvenir,
a lost cause.

That is your heart,
that is your heart.

My heart starts to ache when I see you
the only evidence of your existence is the pictures we kept in frames and hearts
An impact greater than you'll ever know
Because dead people know nothing at all
I want to remember the sound of your voice and beautiful veins
But all I can think of is your silence therefore I speak to my heart and create answers on my own.

I saw you
On the train
You were immersed in the Sunday Times
Headline reading: Girl Missing for 17 years, Finally Found
I think to myself you are the dream come alive
This is the moment they promise in rom-coms
The outlandish answer to "how did you meet?"
I promise this time I will tap your striped-sweatered shoulder

Who am I kidding.
We were on a crowded bus, my hair
Plastered by the neighboring sweat
You
Nearly next to me, preoccupied, with your
Tiny little screen
As you stuff your hand in your low slung jeans
Pull out a stick of gum which you proceed to chew so loudly

Who am I kidding.
I gave you a sideways glance

If you were to ask me what my name is, I would hesitate.
I would hesitate for I know not how to respond.
My name is not of my own, but a faded thing, like a memory or a dream.
A memory of who I used to be, or rather, who I never was, who everyone else dreamed me to be.
I am not my name.
I am not something to rely on when things go wrong.
I am not the things forced within a heart.
I am not the thing that keeps most breathing.
I am not Hope.

~~
I am not writing any poetry
Not a huff,
Not even a romantic mood,
I talked to a distress

Unto thee of say my friend:

The suffering of pain is more than a pain
Words of distress
No longer I can't say either

The story of that night
That is longer than a long night
That night, my love had died before the dawn

How do I tell thee

The suffering of love is unforgettable
Than the love you never achieved  
Middle of the night to about chest pain

When I could not bear it no longer
Then at late night I call a friend to awake
No longer I can't say either

My friend
O' my friend!
My dearest friend!

How do I tell thee
My soul grew dry that is more than a wither petals
No longer I can't say either

When the sudden stopped of time
I stood, Saw the closed distant door
No longer I can't say either

To be alone in everybody
Within a moment a known seems to be unknown
No longer I can't say either

The last thing to understand who she is constant
The story of the lost bright Star
No longer I can't say either

The door is closed
Maybe someone has locked
Alone, The sleepless nights of choking

One's that hard
Many pale faces in the crowd of strangers
Love is lost within too many hopes

How do I tell thee
No longer I can't say either
~~
@ Musfiq us shaleheen

Madness. Stark raving madness.
Leaping flames of the mind. Gently licking
at the heart. Blood set on fire, brought
slowly to a boil. Madness. Stark. Raving.
Madness.

The conversation simmered as such:
"Don't be dramatic."

Is this how we go about
pretending we are shocked
when people cut themselves shoot themselves
hang themselves end themselves when
they are told to simmer as such:
"Don't be dramatic."?

Drama is my eye sockets bleeding
heavily at paper-crumbled past midnight.
But of course I cannot do that.
I cannot bring myself to bleed.

Drama is my hands effortlessly
clutching a neck- any neck, I don't care whose-
and squeezing until my eye sockets bleed.
But of course I cannot do that.

Drama is not a breathless exasperation
when suddenly a wave of the same old
same old begs to drown you again
and once again you must pick up a pen
to survive. Darjeeling you
tire me oh so very much. You hate me
oh so very much I think. You...

No, me
and my madness. Stark. Raving.
Madness.

Which I can't let happen again
because apparently dramatic is
being able to barely
take my next breath
and wondering why
respiration in a classroom
should be a mountain climb.

Because I'm young I tend to forget
that the world still turns
when you can't see yourself.

But you sleeping is how God reminds me:
flowers bloom best in the morning.

With the possible exception of one person, I tend to leave people worse off than when I met them. Sometimes in small ways. Sometimes in big ways.

The big ways are getting more often and I think my heart-growth is stunted.

I'm worried.