the bone:

i laid down the framework,
scratched along my skeleton.
bared myself to the very core—
i feel like
i’ve been here before.

someone once asked me what love is.

first things first,
this reminded me of something i’d written a couple years back.

love isn’t always in between people,
or romantic for that cause.
sometimes, it’s as simple as falling in love with the way the rain falls over you,
tipping down your face,
the way you get to breathe in the scent of wet mud—
love can be anything.
different for everyone.
but just the same feeling for each.
(if not similar)

love is what i feel
when i look at people i cherish,
things i like,
things i need,
things i have—
my family,
my friends,
my baby bunny.

i love love.
(i hate it.)

it's so unique… isn’t it?
like magic almost.

how someone can suddenly enter your life
and become such a big part of it,
that to think of them not being here—
beside you—
it’s simply impossible.
either here, or not at all.

it doesn’t make sense
how we can feel this much
for someone.
an animal.
a memory.
a friend.
a lover.

to be honest,
i don’t think love is love
as they show in movies.
hypothetically, even if it were—
i think it'd be a lot less dramatic.

it’s beyond that.

it's holding onto the one you love—
the thing you love—
holding onto the memories you made.
holding onto the feelings you caught
in that one situation,
the visions where you envisioned them in,
the smiles,
the warm floaty feeling within
when you have the one you love,
close to you.

because that’s love—
something pure.
something innocent.
something deep.
something warm.

something alive.

you want to know that it is/they are—with you.
at a distance,
far away,
no matter.
but in terms of feelings
and heart
and bonding—
close by.
close to you.

it’s happiness.
and pain.

ah…
to think of not being in love?
it’s such a crime.

i wish every person in this world
gets to experience it once.
doesn’t matter if heartbreak comes later.
i feel like pain from heartbreak
would be more pure.
raw.
a reminder of a heart
that still beats—
probably for someone else,
something else.

i get the meaning now
behind the words:

my heart beats for you.

to say it,
i think it means
loving someone
just oh-so-much...
that to think of them not being here…
physically hurts.
loving someone so much
that you feel like you’re alive for them.
breathing for them.

and it's toxic.
but it’s magical.

capable of setting you alight,
making you taste
what poison might feel like.

it's insane
how something so psychologically toxic
can be so emotionally divine.
(is love a drug of some kind?)

and to think—
to wish—
for it to happen to me
and everyone alive?

maybe it’s mean of me.
but i guess i can be mean this once.
call me arrogant, call me rude
i curse you with the truest hue
one that love shall pour over you
thank me later, i know you'll do.


if humanity doesn’t know
the depth of love,
what are we even doing?

love isn’t that bookish,
movie-typa thing.
it’s beyond.
different for everyone.

i could be in love
with an animal,
a person,
a thing,
a memory,
anything.

and i love the feeling.
always will.
despite the pain
of losing it.

it’s the circle of life.
and i’m here for it.
alive.
still.



the muscle:

they told me to maintain.
i held the weights,
flexed every part,
endured—
reached here,
and tore myself apart.

wrote the above thing
close to two years back or so,
but reading it—
i’ve missed out on loads
and well—
this piece of text
is as messy as love gets.

now, i write—

love is—
a verb.
an action.

in terms of emotions—
it's an intense feeling
of admiration
you feel towards someone.

for me—
i don’t know.
i’ve never known.
perhaps i won’t—
or perhaps it’ll click
some random day,
i guess—
when i feel that way
about someone?
(do you care?)

but love is also—
care.
it’s friendship.
it’s the world around me.
it’s myself.
it’s you.
it’s everyone around you.
(shh, i'm onto—)

the word is simple.
the meaning—
yeah, well—
it’s complex.

but not complicated
as we make it out to be.
it’s simply complex,
like that one chemical equation
that always seemed scary
until you finally understood it.

seems scary.
but once you fall—
it’s a trust fall.
either you do it
entirely all at once—
or you take a step back.

and that "all at once"
might seem like it’s happening
in steps,
but that’s the complexity of it.

besides—
falling is easy.
maintaining is hard.
staying is hard.

which brings me
to the romantic type of love.
the relationship one.
and that is where i pause…

because to share that too
would be like—
(won't give out my secrets,
what you'll do?)

i'll jot down the keys:
three of them,
that’ll carry forward
any bond that needs maintaining—

effort being the core,
communication being the key,
the way the brain matches,
cognitive,
behavioral,
telepathy way,
and nervous—
won’t go into science—
but psychologically.

let’s just skip over this.


the skin:

surface.
it’s all on the surface.
i’m merely any perfect.

porcelain-like feelings,
perception of all of them—
temporary towards me.
oh,
but will you touch it?

you don't say—i like the rain—
but directly, i love the rain.
never, i like you, directly—
often, i love you.

loving is beyond liking.
you can like something,
you will love it—
but loving can also happen
when you don't like the thing.

liking someone
for the idea of them—
that’s just liking
the view you've built in your head.

but the real person is so much more.
won't find that out
until you talk to them,
until everything between you two
is transparent,
no secrets anymore.

that’s how you know
if you love them or not.

you can like someone,
and then love them.
but you can also love someone
and not like them.

like your family.
like some friendships.

sometimes,
you love first,
and then start to like
the smallest of things they do.
the tiny, silly things
that make them them.

don't try to fit people
into the ideal mold
you've made in your head.
we're falling in love,
not baking cookies.

let them be.
see them for what they are,
not what you want them to be.
(cookies can be decorated,
like love on a human being.)

that’s what we miss.
that’s what makes
humanity feel so hard to find.
(we become bakers,
forget the baseline)

we demand perfectionism.
even in people.
and perfectionism in love—
is impossible.
imperfectly perfect.
you and i, i term it.

you're love.
i'm love.
well made outta love.
(shush, not that way.)

every single one of us is love.
and perhaps it's easy to digest
when you think about it,
poetically— say
love yourself, do you?


the nerves:

pulses and poison—
like the extremes to a function.
chaos. sensitivity.
squelching organs.

synapses i’ve been sending...
here’s the current
that’s been reeling in its wake.


love is care.
love is pain.
it's anger—disguised as unsaid words.
it's the unspoken, undeterred mess of emotions
you feel
when you look at something,
or someone,
and you realize—
you want it.

not in an owning way,
but in a way where you want
to see it / see them
every day you wake.

you want it beside you,
close, in front of you,
the same way—
for the rest of your life
and beyond
(if that even exists).

it's not ***.
not touch.
not kiss.

those are just forms.
you kiss your pet.
you kiss your mother.
you kiss your lover.
three kisses,
three different galaxies—
same name.
kissing.
loving.

loving is
feeling all the positives
and all the negatives.

i guess it's loss.
it's care.
it's anger.
it's pain.
it's hatred.
it's hurt.
it's admiration.
it's hope.
it's happiness.
it's the cloud of anxiety.
it's the fear of losing.
it's the ache of loving too much.
it's—everything.
it is us.

just don’t say i love you
if it’s the same love you feel for the moon,
or the way flowers bloom
in front of your eyes.

don’t say it
unless it has encompassed you whole.
unless you’d want to repeat it till the very end—
in anger,
in resentment,
in between a brawl,
or even when you’re hurting,
feeling everything in all it's might.

in those awful,
quiet moments
when everything feels like too much.

don’t say it—
even though you feel it.

because often,
the i love you that feels like everything
isn’t rooted deep enough
to grow and stay.
the strongest roots—
they spread when you wait.

when you feel those feelings
again and again,
until you realize
you’re not bored of them.
until they’ve become your normal.
the way your heart chooses to beat.

don’t say i love you
if you aren’t ready to commit your life
to the sin
that is called
loving.

and if i say i love you,
that simply means
i may or may not like you—
but i accept you.
and i need you.

not in the way you’d need me,
not the way you'd call it romantic,
not like i need my baby bunny,
not like i need my family—

but in a way
i wouldn’t want to see you go.
i’d want you to stay right here,
beside.
and every day i wake up,
i’d want to see you.
to feel the same exact feelings—
and so much more—
than what i feel
when i say:

"i love you,
stay here, whole."



the whole:

the being
culmination.
philosophical abomination.
quiet truths—
anatomy resulting.

i am,
therefore i live.
i am,
therefore i love.


i’d written about loving
like it’s something that happens.

beautiful.
tainted.
untainted.
unpredictable.
messy.
ra­w.
visceral even.
magical.

it was everything around me,
everything that could be,
everything that was.
and is.
and me.

it was innocent.
it was inevitable.
it was heartbreak.

and then it was anatomy.
if the previous me
termed love as bone—

the bones laid down the structure,
i poured in the muscle,
covered it in skin,
gave it life through nerves,
brought a whole being—
alas, i'd forgotten
there was a shadow—
that it was bound to bring in.

made it a verb, an action.
less ethereal yet mighty,
more grounded, yet aloof,
capable of setting you alight.

at first it was feeling,
now it was becoming.
it was doing.
it was—its meaning.

acceptance.
showing up.
caring.
moving on.
feeling.
letting go.
breathing.
relieving.
crying.
laughing.
drying your own tears.
hugging a friend.
expressing.

not always a sunshine.
not always glittering.
not always melancholy either.
not always a sad ending.
or an ending at all.

it's irony.
it's metaphor.
it's simple.
it's a word.

it's not clean,
it's poetic,
it's real—
tender,
alive.

it's us.
love is us.

it's you.
it's me.
it's everyone around.

living.
wanting.
wanting to live.
living to accept.
to love life.

that's loving.

it's grieving.
it's accepting.
it's needing, requiring
and yet not tying a knot
to keep it close.

can't lock up the favorite flower
in the garden
just 'cause i love it, no?
it'll die for no cause.

this is my anatomy of love.
i present it to you.

all love is,
and all it can be—
and there's much more
that i can't encompass in writing.

but it's everything
and beyond
and nothing at all.

love is—love.
loving.
it's loving.

i love this.

it's evolving.
it's like us.

growing.
learning.
new ways,
new outcomes,
new lives.

it's us.

it's smiling after a touch with death.
it's grieving the loss
of someone who promised to stay forever
but left.

it's promises.
the broken ones,
the completed ones—
the endings,
the not-really-an-endings.

and if you're looking for an ending to this,
it won't.

because love—
will keep going on.

it's love, no?









the shadow:

in disguise, unwelcomed.
deep,
darkest becoming of the negative might.

full body burn—
a copy.
following.
seething.
my closest enemy.

and sometimes
you’ll fall “out” of love—

which is normal.
it’s a phase—
or well, they say so.

that kind of love isn’t the one i’ve talked about above.
for sometimes
we tend to forget
love means staying too—
staying,
not because you have no other choice
but because you want to.

that sometimes
you might feel
the feelings vanished—
that everything you felt
turned into its contrary.
negative,
i.e. hate.

love was—
and has always been—
a natural.
hatred
is the one feeling
we milked out of it,
the wrong way,
for the wrong reasons.

but sometimes
it’s valid too.

these are all paradoxes.

but in a world
of falling in love
only to fall out of it
and move on—

opt to fall in love
for commitment.
to stay—
even if the feelings fade,
perhaps not in the same way
or not at the same levels—
but accepting and allowing yourself to feel
whatever gave it birth
in the first place.

love isn’t always a feeling either.
sometimes,
it’s a decision.
one you have to remake—
daily.
weekly.
monthly.
every second of your life—
even when you feel like the “love” faded.

it won’t always feel good—
but when you feel it,
it’ll be the best thing you’ve ever felt.

though,
a couple things that love isn’t:

it isn’t psychotic.
obsessing.
snatching.
controlling.

it isn’t something that ought to make you go haywire,
make you forget your own life.
it isn’t something that’s meant
to make you want to die.

if you love someone—
don’t say you’d die for them.
live for them.
try to.
intend to.

like a nutty chocolate
that also has fruits
and a bit of darkness to it—
love is
a mix of paradoxes.

it’s
chaotically messy.


and if the love
hurts you—

find your peace
despite loving
the thing
that brings you ache.

find your comfort,
despite knowing
you loved it.
loved them.

for sometimes,
distancing
is loving—

for them
and for you.

love,
but love yourself too.

it could
wrap around your ribs
like silk—

but you'd realize
the thorns
hidden beneath it.

love
doesn’t have to be monstrous,
forced.

it doesn’t have to be complex.

just
feel what you feel.
express,
and bloom.

the bittersweet,
the happysad,
the syringe
filled with sugar syrup—

this part
is the shadow of love.


i guess i did perform an autopsy over love.

give it to the night sky,
i whisper, looking down at our intertwined hands—
sweaty as they are, my palm amongst yours.
you tighten the grip just right,
looking me in the eye,
pleading silently to never let go.

i smile, as i usually do,
but this one carries the hint of weakness—
the feeling brought by you.
and i look back up; the moon stares—
like a mother, like a father, like a family.
it holds you and i under its pale light,
surrounding us,
despite the dark enclosing us from all sides.

give it to the night sky,
i say again, broken at the end.
you shake your head—
i can't, i hear you mumble,
makes me cry, i hold it in.

you could, give all this love to the night sky,
let me go,
and i'll dream about you.

but is it really necessary?
i promised to stay.

so you do.
i see strength,
and i see the way it fits you—
it comes in waves
until it grapples over you.
and while the dark seeps right across your chest
through the tendrils of my hand,
you never let go.

i watch you break,
wait for you to disintegrate,
as i've always feared—
except the smile never quite leaves your face.

and you give me the look,
looking straight into my eyes once more.
you smile the same way you did the first day,
and the day i told you who i am,
and the day you saw me destroy the world around us—
the same inkling of love
disguised as the passion of a fool.
aren't you a fool

you never let go,
even as my murk surrounds you.
it circles,
ensnares,
screams,
and cries—
but you hold my hand tight all that while.

and when i see it take over you,
thoroughly,
i break down—
like a glass piece shattering.

can't afford to look back up,
can't look at your face.
what have i done,
after all this time,
once again?

squeezing my insides,
finding something—
the same anchor of the heavy
that's held me down all this while.

the feeling so floaty,
i start losing grip of your arm.
and as it falls nimbly to your side,
i can't look at your face.

but there's a shimmer in the night.
the dark is overshadowed—
never has it happened,
but it does now,
as the moon brightens twice.

and your voice echoes—
first in my mind,
then my heart,
and slowly it takes over me,
as a cold hand searches for mine.

the grip is back—
it grounds so light,
unlike what i was before.
you make me look up,
and i see it in your eyes:
no murk, none of mine,
even though tendrils of it
snake around your neck
and give way into lines—
lines shadowed by a glow,
a glow so pure and bright.

you still carry the same smile,
and it makes me cry.

you withheld it all,
i question,
hoping you won't fade away into oblivion.

there are stars in your eyes,
and i see the hearts in mine.
the night glimmers,
and i feel alive.

brought you back to life, didn't i promise?
it could have killed you—
they always mentioned it did.
none of them had the urge,
or the strength,
or saw through you the right way, perhaps.

i chuckle.
perhaps—
i wasn't worth enough of that.

hey, what of me—

well, love, my love,
tie u and i, i shall
our hands together
let this feeling swell,
and you're right,
i'll give you it—
you did bring me back to life.

it flickers to life with a mere spark,
burning so bright—
almost as if it’d set anything nearby into an uncontrollable fire.

the rage at the beginning continues
until the tip burns out.
and if you look close enough,
you'll see sparks dancing in the surrounding cloud of flame:
starting blue, then white,
then a bright orange and raging red.

often missed,
they say the smoldering heat lies in the blue zone.

and the craziest part?
the stick burns—turns black—
but before that,
it glows a bright red, like iron in a furnace,
even if just for a second.

if you touch the matchstick within those seconds—barely two or three—
it burns.
the ghost of the once very alive flame kisses your skin.
but not in a way that harms or leaves a mark—
in a way that the sizzle lingers just beneath the surface,
for minutes.
longer, if the zone is too sensitive.

the flame then catches the rest of the stick.
the darkness spreads so smoothly,
swallowing it whole—
almost like that one void we all try to escape from.

often, only the part you held—
the part you blew out,
afraid it’d reach your fingertips—
remains untouched.
it couldn't live the life meant for itself,
yet more than half was spent unsaid.

the black takes over.
devoid of red,
of flicker,
of magic.

but when it burns—
it’s the prettiest thing ever.

the flame.
the cloud of fire.
albeit small,
bright enough to smolder steel into black
(trust me, i’ve tried).
hot enough to burn skin
(based on personal experimentation).

flickering enough to cause destruction—
and addicting enough to make you want to commit arson.

and then it dies.

a burnt corpse.
once alive for seconds,
fulfilled its own eternity,
the life written for it since the very manufacturing—
and then it lies among the other half-broken, crushed soot,
to live its death.

that’s what it’s for.

like humans as well.

i came across this post today—
it asked me if i wondered
what would be the best place to leave my heart—
even if it's bits and pieces, like shells in the sand.

made a list for my own peace,
but here to share it, if you seek to leave a piece
of your own:

the sea, people claim, carries the tranquil
and provides the cool;

the empty temples and churches,
where your heart prays and reluctantly admits;

graveyards at night,
protected by those who left their own behind.

libraries and dusty old bookstores,
in between the pages and caskets of the used shores.

sun-dappled shades of yellow, green, and orange—
once settled, the purples and pinks of the similar hues.

gardens of thorns and flowers,
the sleeves of your last lover;
knots of the willow trees,
in winter blues and heated blooms,
risky texts during the night,
with strangers i met online,
in midst of late monsoon showers,
not to miss out the midnight hours.

a few bits i leave
in the misty mornings of the early summer,
the drenched evenings of the spring shimmer.

the company of my closest companions—
in the fur of a cat,
the nip of a bunny,
the smile of a pup,
sometimes in a sunset,
in the lush green of the forests,
often in the foil of the autumn trees.

mostly on my bed,
in my tear-filled, forsaken pillow,
and against the one i sleep so dearly.
plushies and teddies,
keepsakes of childhood memories.

with all those i've met so far,
and cookie crumbles at the footstep of my life—
for those who are welcome
and those who are not.

i have left, and leave, a lot more pieces.
i wonder if my heart is a cake-a-piece.

the curve of your smile, as it meets the edge of your eyes.
salty shimmer, like that of burning sunshine in the heat.
i grasp at the sparkles, like a child grabbing onto bubbles—
except you never quite leave,
and so the magnificence stays,
claiming its own small place in my very being.

and the locket sticker i've got tattooed on my arm—
i know what name it carries.

you've got a shadow in your vision—
my own, if i were to keep it hidden.
but it resides, like in a cage behind your beauty.
the imperfections, the mess—
all of me in its chaotic glory.

fingers tainted with melted dark chocolate,
the cranberry bits in it painting your lips.

i ask if i can put pinwheels in your hair.
you tell me i could, as i should.

the faint traces of your hand against mine—
would you paint them with my tears as i cried?

i'd like to carry symphonies spoken amongst us,
settled like candy secrets in the pit of my stomach.

the epiphanies that you've brought in between
whisper to me, like you'd beckon my spirit.

walk with me, to a path leading nowhere.
unhindered.

to exist
when i want nothing but love of my own
for myself
some of it,
dedicated entirely to my being,
my skin, by all means

and i feel like this skin isn't mine
like a second layer
some days i dream of tearing it apart
and perhaps finding what i look like
within

is it any different from the other deformations?
do i have it smooth, baby-like, good enough, to be accepted?

had it been all natural,
nature-given, that way i'd have perhaps accepted
alas, knowing it's a play of the world onto me
and in my body,
my blood messing up everything it's meant to do for me
all because of the ones that were supposed to create antibodies

there's this guttural scream that ensnares me whole

where do i go
when i see them fight the demons outside and around
i can't even win the battles that i carry within me, all time round

and i'm on a war with myself
there's rage, there's ache, there's the pain
of when will i accept
i shall forever bargain

why do i even begin to heal if i have to go down the same place
down the same low
the lows hit lower
i see new symptoms, new symphonies of how it could and would
and it does—it gets worse again
and it's a cycle

healing, accept the white little ***** that carry the science of potential magic
put all my hopes, have them disintegrate
go back again
start at the beginning, new dose around—i'm healing

and then i come crashing down again

and it's the nights
and the mornings
that are the worst

both the times, when i should be at my best
i'm battling, wanting to hide and disappear
and wear a snake-like skin on myself

i hate me
and this hatred lives deep within like a monster that birthed itself
out of the normal, the ordinary that i have lacked

there are days where i pull at my roots
watch them fade
watch them fall
i cry and lose hope with every strand that couldn't stand tall
and it's like cemented on me

had it been scales on a snake, i'd have called it flashy
it's disgust that's piled in my eyes, against my being
i see the look on my face
the dead, the dead stares back every time i try to play pretend
and it whispers
it whispers, smirking in my ear

this is what you get

be normal?
oh i would do anything—exchange half my lifeline
if i could live through a healthy half of life
or whatever remains
i've tired myself out of it all anyway

there's bumps
and there's fractures
i feel like it's my own skin that peels
every time i grasp it

and it's visceral
too graphical, no gore however
makes me wonder
how it'd be—moments of softness
where i cherish just me
where who i am isn't my enemy
even just for a breath
i wish to write about that breath

but oh—
imagining is hard when there's nothing left for you to do
the ones living in delusions have thought and wondered if it could all come true
my case is different
so far, years upon years i've been hoping
but the last of this strength, the last drop in the vessel that was given
it might run out as soon as i stop breathing and moping

and i am perhaps the most devastating liar of all
you shall never see me burning myself to the ground
for i'll stand tall through it all
and in front of your lies, i'll deceive and speak my practiced lines
i'm alright, it is what it is—i'll be fine

i won't be. i am not. i'm tired. give me some hope.

i might be a ***** for feelings
and i fear—i fear so loudly in a silence
call me a *******—love is what i want
hatred is all that i got

i have been hiding
and i've been running
and i sat in this adventure ride
never got back out of it

i'm scared
and i don't think i'll get out of this shell ever
so i imagine myself hiding
covered in multiple shells and armors
walls surrounding me, boundaries in the form of
words and my own scars—the ones that aren't even on the surface
protecting me, giving the silent comfort
that they are here, to carry me on, forward

and i've lied so much
i started believing my own lies
forgetting what was the truth
'cause it hurt so much

what do you do when you go down?
where do you go when you are drowning?

quiet is peaceful
quiet is welcoming
like i don't have to perform to exist in here, no
especially the dark
no one can see me
i can't see me
and that's just easy

to exist that way
been felt for, not seen on the surface
not just looked at, but heard
for your voice to find out of your own existence

there's voices in my head
that'll scare you more

what even is there to love
or like?
i see nothing
and on the surface
it's all to despise

show me if there's something
don't tell me it's the heart that's worth it

when you starve yourself for long enough
the void of hunger becomes like it's a normal
the new normal

starving myself of everything
to get used to it the best way
the void, though
continues to grow

i get these random bouts of feeling
such immense loneliness
makes me want to pull in the closest person
hug them tight
take all the warmth
squeeze out my life

i'm layers upon layers
of words and of stories
of people i've met, their memory
and of all who've given up before me
girl in pieces, i shall call myself
would anyone even want me?

i just lit up a matchstick,
like a rock striking the bed of still water,
creating ripples seemingly impossible to control.
the matchstick ignited the moment it made contact
with the red phosphorus on the box's side.
it burnt so bright, so sharp—
i watched flickers of it, the tiny fire—a world of its own.
the flame started blue at the centre,
turned white, orange, red, and a bright yellow.
was this the sunshine's glow?
or the fire that grew from it?

i watched the match start to shrivel up,
the tip that burnt the brightest went down the fastest.
it dropped on my skin,
left a tiny scar in its midst.
and then the stick caught fire—
slowly, gradually, it ate itself up.
the world swallowed itself whole—
the world that the matchstick had created on its own.

such innocence. i wonder if it had life—
oh, but it did have life.
born with it—well, made the way it is supposed to be:
burn, leave a light, which lasts longer.
the originator of the fire, further.
and it dies because of its own existence.
the box that it comes within
carries what brings it to its ending.

and all those, multiple—oh so many,
that come within a box like a well-settled family,
leave one by one, burning themselves apart.
i wonder if the ones remaining behind know their part?

isn't that the irony of human beings as well?
our own worlds, created by us alone—
swallowing us whole,
and often the ones to bring us to ruin: our own.

sometimes i wonder
if i were to kiss the flame,
pull it in my arms, hug it, and set myself on fire—
would our worlds collide?
would i break the loop of life?
would i find the warmth i require,
or would i too turn to ash,
like the matchstick as my friend?

what would it say—
the flame, as it embraces me in return?
would it be like the caress of a mother’s hand,
or the sizzling burn of my father’s?
would this comfort be my destruction?

i wonder if the matchstick ever regretted its purpose.