i started doing opiates; they claimed they'd help,
and suddenly the world glistened — a glittery mess.
disco *****, people with smiles and tears on their faces,
they danced a ballroom.

if i got caught dancing to my own rhythm,
it was only because it felt good; i was floating.

when the string cuts and the ball drops,
take my hand — let's waltz through the streets.
the lights will disappear, the lamps extinguished:
midnight and the broken dreams of those who now sit and stoop.

i still feel the phantom of hands on my skin,
telling me to move —
sway to the left, crane to the right,
jump at the beat, circle, half-twist as i glide.
and all of a sudden the hands let go.

i fall.
the dream is coming to an end.
i don't want to leave.
one more dose couldn't hurt, right?
i hum the tune of those who went to their early graves;
they say it's the best way to commit — for i'm about to follow them.
so i have to warn the otherworldly about my upcoming presence.

the fox ponders
squandering still, sitting by itself.
curling, pulling its tail up close—
peaceful that way, serene,
giddy in the hush.

the wind glides over its resting body.
blinking, eyes close; the fox turns,
raises early, ears hooked
to the faintest sound.

nothing.
he swore he heard something.
but then again—
perhaps just the whispers.

there have been plenty of those lately.
they left him,
called him crazy.

he didn’t mind,
not really.
yet it echoes, often—
sometimes too loud.
the fantasy, the faintness of their shadow,
lingers.
it’s been like that with him
since the beginning.

so he let go.

surrounded by green,
a cartoonish fable brought to life,
he is just a character in a children’s story.
beware the foxes, they are taught—
clever, cunning, sly.
but all he did was protect himself.
what is wrong with that?

they never understood him, the fox.
so he became what they claimed of him.
for them, only.

are you going out tonight?
does your vision double when fishes swim across
and fight above you, peering through the creak
of a space that widened when people withdrew their facades?

do you see one of me, two of me,
or as many as you'd like them to be?
you — a dead body that looks too alive
for someone who has aged so young.

why do you hide? uncover, unmask;
hasten, bring it to light.
how do you believe?
or was it truth in hindsight?

did they mix something in the drink of your life?
why did you drink, knowing it might be poison in disguise?

they'll be fighting over grey or gray, and that's how the biggest mishap will be committed.
and then it'll be a mistake that will always go unpaid.
it'll all be in colors of ashes that went astray.

death sat beside the black cat, rubbing its fur.
the cat purred, drifted to a misery-less sleep—almost.

death stared.
a delicate stare—
it didn't last long enough,
but long enough to leave behind the fact
that it was delicate to begin with.

turned out, once having begun to wane and wax,
it couldn't be full again
for time long enough to put things to rest.
the cat had been fading.

they'd been sitting for hours, by the curb,
as people drifted by.
the cat's body left uncared for—
it had taken the hit to save a cuckoo's egg.

and if no one quite noticed,
simply forgot the cat even existed,
the people who lived, who had seen it often,
claimed they loved its presence.
but once it was gone,
the cat had waited just to see any reason to stay.
none turned up. they continued to live,
and forgot, leaving it astray.

it stayed, conveyed through eyes and squeaks.
turned out, being wronged,
the cat didn't have any idea of the difference
between being needed
and being cared for, to begin with.

only perhaps that one old lady,
with a little girl latched to her hand—
close to death, having lived her life,
with a new youth.

they cared enough to leave flowers,
and cover the body with earth.

when it was hungry, death snapped his fingers.
a ceramic plate, gold and silver,
filled with stars, appeared.

the black cat fed,
while staring as the world moved,
and eventually rubbed its head against death's arm—
the latter taking it as a signal.

it was time.
the cat was ready to move on.

they call it the meteor shower.
and people like us—who wish upon an eyelash—
call them the shooting stars,
a once-in-a-lifetime thingy.
i don't remember the last time i caught one.
this once, the stars fell,
but i was away, far away,
trying to bandage a broken ceramic cup.

ironic how it works:
watching it in clips takes away all the perks.
i missed wishing upon the shooting stars.
i'm going to pluck one off the sky tonight,
wish upon it, and urge it to fall.

will it work?

the stars are out tonight,
bright — a few distanced from each other,
nonetheless twinkling.

there are fireflies in the field i stand amidst;
they skitter past, the bulb-like glow immersive.
there’s magic in here, right here —
silver trails, golden at the origin,
like sparkles left in the air,
held, suspended.

time slows.
the hum and clicks of cicadas and crickets fade into the background.
a few fireflies circle, slowing to a rhythmic spiral.
they stare, tilting their bodies,
as if to exclaim their scowls:

"you belong not with us,
why come in the middle of the night
to disturb our work?”

acting surprised, i hum the tune
that has echoed for a while —
came from where? perhaps the night.

“she’s one of us — you seldom?”
“her disguise is not.”

so i pick off the scales,
all that covers and hides the light beneath.
the curtain drops, and they rise, unlike me.

“oh. look! do you see her too?”
“are you coming with us?”

they shoot up, straight, toward the night,
as if aiming for the stars —
and i simply continue to hum
the same old adversary.

could have joined,
but perhaps i found myself in yet another dream —
of unmistakable, post-seen-through belonging;
not the home i’d sought out tonight.

this enchanting lucidity
will return again,
some other time.

the fireflies ricochet off the stars,
the shade swivels and drops to my skin like liquid brass —
a metallic pewter bronze,
and the dullness has never been this—

mon cherie, bonne.

what comes after the letter t in alphabet
that's who i intend this for.
be careful, the walls listen here.
they absorb, and when you stand too close,
you hear it all—everything they have talked.

careful in soliciting,
we can like the subduing.
there’s atomic structure
to every feeling that sent you reeling.

beware the absolute monarchy-like setting.
and if you weren’t careful enough,
i stand close—
by the walls, and they’ve been whispering things

i’m not sure i ever knew you.

silly aching little thing,
greyish thoughts surrounded by a bed of prettiest lilies.
the ground is soft — lie by, or walk barefoot.
synchronize feelings, the heart beats as it should.

does it make the entirety of dark matter
worth handling?
beautiful enough — you think you could?

decoration on a dead body
will it bring it back to life?
if so, drop by,
and put on some fairy lights.

the nostalgia of what once was
the yearning for what could be
the realization that things have changed
the denial speaking - why did it have to be
the grief palpable - of what existed and how parts got left behind
the anger screaming for the wrongs and the rights and whose responsibility
the bargaining - please let me have it, a repeat?
the acceptance - time does this, time will do it again

so is it in my hands?
and if it is - can i go against time's plan?
cause i'd like to
but not sure whether -

so we sit, stare at things
and hum to the surround sounds
what could even be?
what even is?

deliberate staying, irreversible lying, detachable beings
write a note, craft a paper crane
throw it to the sky
hope it finds the one it's addressed to
and let the clock turn, as once again time begins the game

there’s things often
that become weights in your head
the longer you carry, the more you dread
like a tiny dust bunny, growing to frankenstein’s size
how do you sort it
once it’s taken over all that you had?

like leaving a rock in the shoe
don’t put the foot in, until you’ve taken it out
or do you?
unloading the bullets out of the gun
only then you add the new cartridge

carrying weights, seen by none
is helping who in the long run?
put it out, do a table-spread
the real art of not caring doesn’t lie in ignorance
accepting, expressing, that’s how you do it

speaking, to self preserve
being weak is when you think you don’t deserve
address it, as messy as it gets
daily bouts of dusting things off are better
than waiting to do the deep clean
cause mold grows in absence

the trends, as per them all,
say you don't write what you ought to,
rather, what is written is what was sought,
experienced and seen — borrowed from excerpts of those who stayed near.

but perhaps, it is because
you keep righting everything but yourself,
and what you think,
never what is — afraid of being seen.

when shall you really write?

where shall it find place,
for you aren't keen on claiming any?

it is i who writes,
except not the i who is.
who shall right i, even,
when i itself doesn't live?

i scroll through fast and rapid,
the skin glimmers, this vision grows static.
there's so much but words,
phrases coming undone.

right up ahead, on the screen a blurry mess —
who poured this bundle of ache?
let it ferment, for how many years, give or take?
what'd you call it, even?

for when it sizzled, was brought to a boil,
left to deliver
the champagne of poems.
coming from where, written by who?
who takes over, why do you still have pending drafts
and more ache to go through?

and there's pieces, bits of clammy memories
that make the hands go sweaty,
and even the keyboard moans: stop, please, let us go.

endgame's a folder of a hundred or so —
put them in the archives, hide or delete them all.
but it exists, once did, so, and again;
you can't escape goodbyes,
or the wine i deliver to you.

it's only once a day,
up and about, swivelling on a roundabout.
sit and spiral, watch it all go viral.

they speak in lies and telltales,
myths and riddles for namesakes,
whispering madness — there's eighty of them and growing.

glass half full, or is it empty still? way to see it.
is it the negative's optimistic?
uff, they continue, watch them relive what they outgrew.

i guess there's fun in nostalgia,
so i sit and read all that i've posted.
(god, it's cringe, but who even wrote them?)

shut them down, the calls.
do you wish to see the drafts, the originals? i've got them all.
there were words, even the more direct truths
that didn't make it here; i don't think they ever could.
but there's an entire diary
that speaks for all what they mean or intend to.
so if there's any snooping, check for the hooks and crannies —
it shines like the dark during daytime,
existing despite the words and mistaken summaries.

and when the bottle is empty, and there's no free-flowing,
accept me done, having disappeared and faded to none.
for it'll be a goodbye, one i beckon;
i don't wish to see it coming — not anytime soon.

and no matter how many drafts you hide,
or the numbers you delete,
you could find any black cat—
it'll never say what you can't speak.

for no amount of books,
or pastries hidden in the night awaiting your return,
once you're done wreaking havoc and
tired of playing—mind fights,
will ever heal what lies broken;
to repair, you ought to have spoken!

hide, run, far to the neverlands, the suburban;
it follows, curious, peeking, cruelly seeking,
like the force of the dark, nature routinely shot:
the psychics, the therapies,
the foretold, the epiphanies,
written unsent, sent unsaid—
it is never a play of destiny.

rule over, before the riegn is stolen of off your hands;
the sole treasure doesn't always have to lie on a foreign land.

you shall be held down
by everything that is and that grips;
for unless you can't speak,
you'll never really get to believe, live.

i stole a list of emotions from the morgue.
they'd kept them separated, in listed folders,
with timings, factors, ways of inhibition,
and the reasons for which they bloomed or decayed.

as they'd cracked open the skull
to research, i believe,
ennui had whispered like a dull hum:
                                                            ­        how i wonder, why to live.

envy leaked next,
an orange, a tad too bright,
slithering in things it would have wanted,
could have liked.
                      i'd want to be that way, oh i wish, so lucky they exist.

disgust clung, cracking open the chest, to the ribcage,
a green fluid so thick they had to leave the rest.
                                                           ­        they are putrid, stay away!

anger roared bright and heavy,
red through the veins, plastered to the walls,
seething with something beyond comprehension,
living off the ache, having consumed it whole.
                              let me breathe, just not simmer below the surface.
                               i'm meant to erupt, how can you push me down—
                                                           ­                            this is a furnace!

joy, intact, lay in the eyes.
it glimmered, even with no life,
marble-like, sparkling — the only one.
                                 oh look how beautiful, i love that and this—
                                                           ­     hey let's go watch the sunset.
                                                         ­   do you dream and believe?

skepticism lay coiled in the gut,
along with jealousy's mold,
while awe cracked the jaw wide open.
                                                           ­           i wonder — are you sure?
                              sheesh, i'd be better, they just don't know it well.

nostalgia clung to the fingertips
and the memories,
whatever remained of it,
while gloom seeped to the bones,
despair settling cold.
                                             this heaviness, have i been here before?
                  oh i wish it was easy to breathe as it is easy to pretend.

schadenfreude grinned through broken teeth,
piling along every single intended well,
disguised as joke-shields.
                                                   ­               hah, i bet you couldn't do it.

love was stitched deep in the aortas,
the heart hummed a beat.
                                         i live for you, stay as the reason i breathe.

pride, lust, greed slithered like birds out of their canopies,
in the liver, excess fat rotting,
put to decay by the one they owned,
never again intact.
                                                         want, need, give me it, on repeat.

sadness and fear collaborated at some point.
the former resided in the head,
the latter took over the mind.
anxiety was born,
a cruel little monster, clown-like,
with no circus.
once these met, impossible to separate,
they lived together, grew closer than facts.
                                                          ­               this isn't okay — it hurt.
                                they're coming, again, protect — hide hide run!
                                           what if — what if — what if — they see!

embarrassment flushed through the skin.
                          oh i wonder why am i turning pink, i need to hide.
shame pressed down, chains at the shins.
guilt nested in the throat,
a lump formulated,
watching truth come close.
                                                          ­      shouldn't have — but — did.
                                                           how do i change the outcome?

suspicion and doubt whispered,
pressed down, leaving intricate triggers.
irritation pulled at the skin,
leaving behind scratches — grave sins.
                  do you believe — verify before you trust, are you sure?
                                                       this doesn't fit too well, take it off!

surprise had busted open the chest.
infatuation took its long-lost, last few breaths,
what was left of the heart remained uncarved.
                                                      ­oh — i was shocked for a moment—
                                                         ­               i've wondered since time.
                                             you're the only one, only only only one.

at one point, perhaps they'd gotten over the autopsy,
and so, without looking too deep,
they threw aside the body,
missing out on the only being
that existed at the pit of the heart.

consummated by gold, surrounded by a cage made of picked-up twigs,
hope, fragile yet glowing,
resided there and under the tongue,
waiting to be spoken.
                                                         ­    but i've existed, and i intend to.
                                                             ­                 do you not need me?
                                  don't throw me out and away like you did to —

i’d stolen the list and the reports,
but carrying them with myself and reading them alone,
i realized all these lived,
changed lives and bodies,
never dead, never ceasing.
emotions brought play into feelings.

what do you feel?

hidden in the folds of my sleeves are the words i'll never speak.
underneath my skin the love for you you shall never get to seek,
and in my eyes the deliberate cheer for every time you smile.
beneath my shirt, i carry the wounds you've given, none of which seem to fade overnight.

metaphors and imagery, all of which pile as a tumbled mess of wires in my ribs.
there's parts of it rotting in my wrists;
you'll never get to hear, never get anywhere near.

and there's the kisses i've left behind in the air,
feathery pecks i've dreamt of pressing to your forehead.
fairy-like, the wings are held down with the weight of their size,
along with the love they carry, all that i hide.
that one unmistakable mishap—
you've led to a nosebleed;
i'm no longer intact.

i trace words on a pamphlet for you if you choose to keep your eyes closed,
put you in my memory by caressing your face
just to make sure, to know you, if i couldn't see anymore.
and i hold hands, despite the fingers crossed behind my back,
just so you wouldn't see the way i cower.
i'll stand for you, if you can't.

i write a disc for you, in case you wish to hear our music differently,
call upon the fates, if they dare twist our ways,
just so i could see you methodically.

the unread, unwritten, so many hidden meanings.
baby, i hope you dream of all the good i send to you when you close your eyes,
for behind my closed ones,
i dream of you and everything you and i.

my shins are decorated with glitter; i've left traces of it in your mirror.
glance once, twice, a few multiple third times,
and if i don't materialize,
blame it on the mirror and your heart.
did you ever really run that mouth over wishing, you imbecile!

who is your purple?
hold me close and tight while i sleepy address you.
while i push you away, do the dance of waltzing us over and through.
stay with me through the night if you ought to fade out by light.
don't play the game of pushing and pulling me away;
baby, i need you like i need no other.
just please stay.

i got a few forget-me-nots for you
while the clouds shifted like cotton candy.
those who've got none to hold by
have the lord above, or they tragically become what we have amongst us—
you and i.

been leaving stars in my wake
if you find one lying somewhere,
just know it was aimed and deliberate.

unlike movie tickets, this isn't a one-time screening.
if you must, pick up one of the trails — go ahead, find the meaning.

and if the clues unveil and the riddles are solved,
patch them all up with your heart.
come visit me, darling from evermore.

who claims i write what hasn't been foretold,
it has been done, wrecked, wretched remains of it left;
always too real, at the boundaries—slithering away quietly, to never simply reveal.

for out in the bright, surrounded by shadows of the height,
cowering stances are lost, forevermore scarred.
something has possessed, the prayer of the good causes only harm;
respect, and save, keep it hidden, locked away in a chest.

find nothing, clues always unseen—
would have, if there had been a way.
this brings me to a lot that'll remain unsaid.

didn't signify what you came to look for,
in simple words, the terrain is uncared for.
too raw, the protection is being tested,
the melancholy and quiet defiance of isolation,
when the values are long since vested.

they've attacked what gates were protected far too well,
the solicited guard ruins of everything that was unkempt.

read her?
the layers beyond comprehension
everything she's written
barely the surface, what's the matter?

literal, nuanced solidarity
right there, right here, in the midst, steer near
wonder, humane doubts touched with eloquence

read her.

beware when you make a wish upon 11:11,
for the time might seem right,
and it could come true.
but make sure to build the prompt the right way—
use whatever nature's against.

i wished upon it once;
since then, it has stayed stuck.
what i needed didn’t specify to what extent,
now it clings—halfway here, halfway broken.
the ultimate wish turned something akin to a curse;
now i don’t know what to believe, or what to wish upon.

so the next time it turns 11:11,
excuse me if i turn my head and play pretend.
wishing was once a task done without thinking;
now it has become dire,
i don’t know what wish i should come up with.

this is just a warning:
careful what you wish for.
to what extent, specify the details like you’re sure it’ll all end,
for sometimes, unknowingly so,
things get done—halfway or more,
and what remains can never be fixed.
so either you sculpt, move over, and plaster that wall,
or continue and stare at the prettiest rupture that you’ve built up tall.

so kinda like how can you exist in two states at once,
perishing in hiding, shining in presence of the oblivion—
like two sides to a coin making it whole,
the paradoxical nature of feeling, either one or the other.
never being able to pick what's my role
how can i pick, when on one hand it's the ideation for peace and love and all things familiar,
on the other lies the atrocity of adrenaline, of finding place in the world,
of carving a way out and perhaps taking the path that's unclear.

schrödinger did say—didn’t he—
to the situation, a cat in a sealed box,
existing in both the states, of being alive and having died,
unless someone picks off the lid and checks for the fact:
a ghost and a heartbeat, coexisting.
what was, what could be, never just the satisfactorily what is.
well, it's yet another piece of quantum theory.

to the observer, if they'd be watching,
i barely think they'd pick up any signs of resemblance—
that it's been a bit harder, to go on and about,
like drifting in the middle of nowhere, no land in sight,
an ocean, yet to find a boat that could lead the right way,
or even, a piece of land, that could become the permanent.

am i going to collapse in one state,
or stay in the very middle, being roped on both sides?
will it tear me in half until all that remains is fragments of what existed,
the impossible suspension—
or will there be a theory,
one answer to sort it all out?

the world we don't know yet,
both decaying and not,
having surrendered to suspending between two truths:
for the unspoken love unless cleared,
for the mental states unless signified,
for identities, fragile or not,
for futures that exist in two forms.

if i were to unlid this box
and find the opening,
will it be my escape,
or will i have to pick one of the sides and live it for the remaining eternity?

is there any free will, or is the fate signed by schrödinger's cat theory?

will mere observation,
but an external force,
perhaps make it easy—
“being understood”—
and will it help, if they were to solve
their own theories, parallely existing?
wouldn’t having significant another,
for matters inconspicuous,
aid in finding
one view,
or simplify this equation of life enough
that
the coin is tilted, the fracture in the curtain of disillusionment gets fixed—

or will we stay stubborn,
luminous, existing as matter that has died but breathes,
practicing and cultivating a life, in the same boundaries?

i live in the complexities
when you hide what you intend
behind words and in metaphors
there’s a freedom, in coming out
putting it for people to read
knowing they’d never get the actual glimpse
of what reminded me when i wrote that piece

but lately the words have been too simple
perhaps direct would be the right term
i’ve gone conversation mode
and i’m not sure i can live with it, i’m concerned

being seen? is what people would like
in my case, i dread it’d be too much
all at once—i wouldn’t want
to be this straightforward with anyone

what if they find loopholes
this work has many, don’t circle
i ensnare the bewitched
admire the wicked
how easy, for them to do the play of swords
i’ve only ever known the basics of using knives
and yet i carry far too many scars
compared to what i could have left behind
on those, against whom i tried

like throwing a stone—against a beehive
the disruption of a quiet world is immense
the uncertainties of what remains
like my girl, it could become reason for an untimely end

a red flag, consistently—i know, and i deceive
but if i can hide it, and yet watch the world read
wouldn’t i settle for the default,
or let myself be bare for the world to see?

being bare out there is scary
giving them a chance to attack
use the words, turn them around
do double smack
without this armor
of creating my own little weapons
who am i—a poet or a person?

so for the intricacies, i increase it tenfold
hide it so well, i return the next day
and wow—no recognitions
who possesses, i wonder?
which head do i get into, i ponder

the depths and nuances with which these erupt
as if they were entangled somewhere deep within
when they first came to trust
labyrinths we reside, my mind is one
so if you try to push in too deep
i’m afraid you’ll get stuck
the layers run like convolutions
there isn’t really any peace
in what i offer as retribution

the chaoticness of words,
the way they become riddles
at the slightest twist, the smallest turn—
brings me to accept, the grandest perhaps:
i kinda like being tangled in metaphors.

the lyrics to all these tracks.
messy, incomplete playlists sitting, gathering dust.
a couple thousand liked songs —
and each of them holds a lyric, a transcription
that sits close, almost a comforting hug
from the one who sang it to the one who listened.
such is the way: music carries life’s rhythm.



so excuse me if i’m always listening.
i’d much rather find solace in being heard without singing.
relating to symphonies — what a way to find balance.

and if i share them with you,
accommodate and put them on.
drop by, leave a choice of yours;
let the music entwine the hands that drifted.
from 'cherry' to 'sh*t,'
from 'darling in drowning' to 'baee,'
'august'ive' nights,
'drug, solely yours' in 'keyboard strings,'
'hit it baby' with 'radio whispers.'

between 'sweet lil’ greys' and 'mighty as ever,'
'for when the voices are louder' i turn to 'sinner,'
or to 'handpicked candy flowers for you.'
sometimes 'kissed by the sun, held by the moon,'
sometimes just  'starkissed' to 'luvluvluvu'.

four petals in a clover,
the same four is the number
of the people speaking.

aiming judgment through their suckled hearts,
they ask questions as i stand right beside,
but they aren’t directly aimed at me —
perhaps they are, for reasons unknown.

better to die rather than speak,
for the listeners have their own
ongoing tragic symphonies.

so either it’s with a crow on my shoulder,
sitting, brooding, waiting for its time,
or perhaps the cockatoo that once exited
but now left the boulder.

’cause why murmur
when it is only going to be seen as grime?

unappreciated great ones —
who carry the voids that refuse to stop growing —
where do they find relief?
if perhaps at all,
don’t tell me they simply stop living.

what story do you come up with
when they ask you my name?

she says a couple,
few words in passing —
unknown, perhaps uncaring
for which home they'll find themselves in.

so they reside, locked up in drawers;
the wounds that got their scabs picked off
still bleeding too fresh.

ever seen wings tainted with red turning black?
dried up, you see the chains that have long since
gotten engraved, and now grow at the very roots, intact.

make her stop.

a tiny little butterfly
flutters past,
wings a green so minty — the gradient seeps,
it screams one of a kind, unique.

i watch it weaving through the bushes,
skipping over asters, purple and blue,
hands outstretched, feeling for the leaves.

the butterfly turns,
flies straight back at me,
gets tangled in my earphones,
and as i try to hush it down —
“quit struggling, little one.”

it stares, hovering,
the wings shimmer, dotted in glitter:
                       the messy is unveiling, are you sure you’re healing?

the pause is visible.
it chooses just the right time to caress my palm,
flits across, right to eye-level,
pulls herself, and flies straight toward the sun.



the asters look golden under the sun
that has chosen to shine so bright,
all of a sudden.

another one where karma is late to arrive,
so the good one drops, becomes the fallen.

if the entirety of it is bad,
and all the ones in wrongs have been the ones in winning —
fair, the word doesn’t exist in their world.
they rule, righteous, claiming facts and sharing synergy.

carry hearts on sleeve, be called a fool.
hide them up and lock them away — what of their use?

it’s pessimism, perhaps — they shine so bright
you can never notice how the gold they sit upon
was once the armor of those they claimed they owned.
taken away, the gold mixed with the blood of their bodies
shone so bright, they seemed like the real angels —
despite in wrong.

believe the words, shared and added to.
write your own story, but having to explain? to whom?

they began their rule,
and so brought the world’s ruin,
like an ancient prescribed rune.

and imagine what of those who wore those armors,
clad in protection, having stood in the rights,
aimed at survival.

sweethearts claiming they do the thinking with hearts,
the ones using the brains win — what of the play?
unfair. brutalist.

the claims of karma proved to be theory,
like justice served when the case dropped cold.
karma took too late to arrive,
so the good ones dropped —
they’ve become the fallen.

similarities of both, striving for what they assume
they ought to stand up for.
what’s truly the right? and what truly
would classify as the wrong?

and i stand in front of the graves of ghosts
who shifted their realities,
joined forces with the wrongs.

which side do i pick?
can’t i remain myself as i was?

learn to relive, every single tale told, like rekindling —
but if all of it is a lie, who ought to try
uncover the truth in living?

if revenge is best when served in silence,
and payback is stuck, suspended in the infinite stretching —
do i let them take my spot, turn me like them?
dark, skittish, scrawny, ruthless, brutal,
an unmistakable hunger to achieve
while crushing those standing in betweens.

and who shall bring this ruin?
or find what is the reality,
not term illusionment as realism?

do i walk over them, join hands with the evil?

if kindness is serving as a punishment,
and love has claimed forces with the unforgiven;
if accepting and mistaking genuineness
has become a way of calling the wrong ones up close —

will being the unforgiven, chastised,
and falling lower, off the fallen standard —
will their faces downcast?

do you listen to them,
let them take over your story,
and narrate it from their point of views?

trying to please, to resist, and not hurt
when speaking the accord shall disagree —
is that a play of the good,
or not wanting to submit to the opposite?

or do you become one,
amongst, amidst —
and regret changing,
letting the murk seep,
just cause—

the ones falling, the ones fallen —
do they fear, or long as yearners
for who they were in the beginning?

feels like being stuck
in the purgatory of the good and the bad.

absolute seconds of nothingness
when realities align, and for a moment
my heart, my lungs, this body — they take the brain and go down.
it sinks.                                        

                                                          uh,­ no—she doesn’t. she didn’t.

at first, it's despiteful, alerting — i'm scared, screaming:
please hook me up to the machines.
and then it coerces the will to do the rights and throws it out, off the ****** roof:
lie here, let it fall, sink below.
and that nothingness brings out the truth.

                                                         ­            why don’t you trust her?

is carving truth on my skin enough,
or will i have to spell it out too?

                              oh, right. listen to them; obviously, you would.

if i could be different person, i would —
stuck in the body of well,
how i've become and how i live,
even i wish none of it was true.

               go ahead. can’t fight off those creepy— i know i should!

does happiness have to be earned?
can it not come free of cost?
do i have to work its worth,
and then cherish it cause it's once in a while,
and not something that'll last me until the next time?

                                                          ­                        talk the talk, huh?

seen the way they talk,
hollowed from with, the evil within lurks,
not standing down even when they get caught—
it's creepy. it is disgusting.
i'd lock me up if i could,
just to escape the wounding,
all that the mere sights do.
but giving them the satisfaction?
oh, not really—hell of a *******.
you didn't get to me.

                                                         claim, aim… for what? owning?

i'll pick up the knife
and stab myself if that'll bring them
to shut the hell up and maintain the distance.
the farther you are,
the less chances of their blades cutting.
too deep grazes are enough,
take away the shine
and stab it back to their origin.

                  pathetic little liars, dancing the dance of the druggies.

the body's shivery,
the temperature within too cold—
the skin burns, however,
at touch, and the outsides just make it a lot more worse.

                              she didn't— i've seen! she didn't take anything!

i woke up nauseous,
feeling like someone kicked my guts in sleep.
it's all a cycle, one that repeats,
but i'm tired of accepting
and finding new signs, every single time.

                                            open your eyes, what lies in the vision?

the world too fast—this brain too slow.
no, no, no, the other way round:
the world too slow,
this brain too fast.

                                                          ­stars. galaxies. the pretty peace.

wait, i hear in between the lines
and the sound, the light—
it whispers, strategically placing itself in my peripheral,
telling me, oh shush, you're a cry baby.

                                                         ­              solemn baby, surrender.

to defeat them, i do, i do it everytime.
i ought to shut them through,
and they go away for periods,
long enough sometimes,
and i think they'll never return.

                              not leaving anything behind, never allowed to.

but they're here right now,
knocking at the doors of my being,
telling me if i didn't open up,
they'll trash it down, bring me lower,
push me under.

                          they'll be near, here, in the shadows, everywhere!

they bring coffins with them,
one built of every single regret and guilt.
till how long do i defeat?
a standalone process, till when does it repeat?

there's no more air left in the world,
and the city's gone too quiet.

it is october.
the last time i'd checked it was the 1st of september
and even before that, the 1st of august
but today, it is october.

i’ve woken up with a letter from the moon
suing me for emotional damages i shared
the previous night with it.

it started this way,
                                    "aching insane little thing, you ought to stop
                     otherwise you'll lose your shine completely someday."

but what of it has remained?
there’s venting, drafts upon drafts,
they could clinically round me up
and find everything that could go wrong has gone wrong
and i’ve become something that i—

i don't think the wanderers from past
would recognize me anymore,
but it is as they say,
you either live to tell the tale
or wake up to having been put to an early grave.

october, where the months ought to have begun,
but september just faded,
in the background with its music still playing.
august didn’t even get a chance.

and i can still hear it,
the inkling and remnants of it
come back to me in the nights as terrors,
and whatever glue keeps me still attached
like a stubborn hook to the wall.

cumbersome to stay,
i've wasted days upon days.
not reached anywhere,
no end to where i’ve found myself
in this forsaken place.

i'm fading away,
like leaves in the shape of who was a person before.
they’re drying out and it is fall
and soon it’ll be winter,
cold enough that barely any tree would remain covered,
and perhaps then it’ll be noticed
how bare bones remain of once where life existed.

and yet there is but some hope.

hope ought to remain,
otherwise this life wouldn't be true at all.
and this is just another page, another chapter.
the previous one didn't end on a full stop
but a semi colon.

so i need not know or wait upon,
i shall carry on reading
and hopefully if time does catch up
i'll be waiting, with open arms
to carry it along someday,
in some way, antagonizing,
skipping right over the pieces of this pain.

there's a poster on my wall that says:
                                                             "don't take life too seriously —
                                                               you'll never make it out alive."

i noticed it when i bought it,
but today i glanced
and it took me off guard.
i'd taken life too seriously.

poetry has too seeped in everywhere now —
in the blog i vent,
the accounts i hide,
everywhere wherein i’m not supposed to be me
and just not carry this act anymore.

hope was a ****** who backstabbed,
so now i'm left with nursing old wounds,
clad in clothes that'd fit june,
looking at the grandest game of all time,
i gotta end.

this time we shall once again start the tale
by watching the good stuff,
that's meant to make you feel good.
make a list of things,
a list i ought to follow
every time it does even in the slightest come true.

and if i shall pull the wipe cache card,
hope is a *****, nostalgia a drug,
memory an aphrodisiac.

call me an addict,
but whatever it is—
withdrawal that i'm carrying.

had it been may,
i’d have been preparing for the upcoming fall.
but i just left the store,
and this time forgetting all the decorations
i brought a safety pin
etched with a silver line to my soul.
tied a red string around the wrist, a stupid solemn knot.
a ring, too tight perhaps, but it grounded nonetheless,
i'm not dreaming anymore.

terrible, terrible spaces.
with caked-up, made-up faces.
angelic nature so common,
the ones with the wings hide amongst them.

in plain sight, being dry;
humor and their eyes
tell tales to those who look with indifference.
drawing from the consequences.
of escapism, soliloquy at its ultimate.

drawing butterflies, left to perchance.
matching templates;
bursting into clouds of stardust—
baked cakes, the cakes of ache.
and they decorated them with tears and smiles.

uninvited though i might be,
stepping in close to those boundaries,
raising a hand, hoping i'd find one.
in the reflection of the glass,
pressing close, watching the steam rise and curl around the fingers.

why do you do this dance?
of fluttering by and past.
misinterpreting—just hear it in clarity once.
don't let them stuff ears with unspoken mirth.
what weather, color, element, track and story do i remind you of?
no dollfaces here, i need to shush them up.
heard a lot, tied a mesh ribbon upon their graves.
shut them up for me; i'll aid in the light.

oh sweet star, the vulnerable kind.
listen to the lullaby as you drift close to the skies.
don't let the bridge burn down.
paranoid surplus, it's a rainy day.
it's september's ruthless undoing.
falling leaves, the whys uncovering.

i'll go walk by the suburbs.
join me, let's climb the trees and hang our dreamcatchers.

so i imagined how this would go —
if i were to make a cut on my arm,
deep enough, with a blade or a syringe thick enough,
and plunge the needle of the record player right to it,
just so i hear what lyrics come out.


                                                         ­would the stylus read me,
                                                             ­   or is it ripping myself apart?
                                 just to try out some tragically insane epiphany?

what music do my veins hum,
as i breathe, repeat, and feel
all that the world is about?
would it become my own phonetic harmony,
or will it be different, to match the variety of feelings
ricocheting within me?

                                                            ­        a loss of good music,
            or can i translate what's being hummed through this spark?


is it self-harm, in doing so?
but perhaps, what would i be termed
if i've already committed whatever felony
you'd call this part?

                                                        t­his generation's record player,
                                    or should i have opted for the vintage gramo?


the sole music i heard
was the beating of my heart,
the rapid thrumming of the blood
that flowed through my veins.
a bit of it out, on the tonearm—
it even covered the record player.
oh well, i wondered,
at least now—
i need not clean my name.

                                                   can i read my memories onto a disc,
                                                  so i could play them on repeat?

i wonder what it'd speak, if it could—
the orchestra of my being,
to me, this noise that reverberates through, in volumes and echoes.
would it tell me i'm sick
or simply one in yearning, born and stuck in a vessel?

silly thing —
giving away pieces of us on a platter.

and people —
they don’t know. barely care.
never will know — who’d tell them?

                                they say, “as if it mattered.”


you know what i’d call those like us:
patchwork dolls, made through quick devotion —
never the ones that attract,
never the ones that make them stay.
hook and sinker, unless tied to.
they keep us, for the sake —
for the vintage, claiming it’s all they'd been after.
but in the end the flashy ones up the stakes,
and we’re left tethered, rotting in the background
of the same workshops we were sewn in.

handwork, sketchy design — like any other.
“special effects,” someone says. “this one’s got empathy.”
let’s give it all, fluff them up with old filters.


feels like being stuck in a head that isn’t my own.
ugh — why won’t they stop?
tiny little monsters carrying ideas;
more torture than help.


they pack us up with barely any gift-wrapping —
it’s for them to let, buy, and sell.
pick up at half the price, because what’s worth is collapsing.
so we arrive like the best presents —
in reality, the least opted for, the least liked,
given to those who live with delight.


can’t sleep without dreaming —
i could’ve written that down.
forgive me; i lost it
in the same maze of memories and epiphanies
that claimed to be the best.
they screamed at me: "put us down on paper!"
i lost them in the labyrinth somewhere.


they say if you're lucky you’ll find the ones you’re bonded to —
the “owners” will protect and keep you years later, as if you’re new.
but that’s objectifying, and where are we being manufactured?
who even bothered?
and why would they now,
when we’re off the market, and the flashy ones gather.


if there’s a phrase, it must be put down — immediately.
i carry notebooks, pens, notepads, but it’s always too late.
keep the phone close; wake at odd hours like a resurrection —
got to put it down. i lost this chain of thought out of spite.


                   not scientifically proven — "who would agree to it?"

feels hollow every time someone leaves,
wondering why let them in.
but the thoughts, the whispers —
only the true ones can stay. believe.


but it’s not that major a thing.
at least i could claim so.
i’ve got their pieces —
a doll sewn from different fabrics
because the first draft tore away.
i’m stitched in colors and shades
that were never mine.
and then there is losing.
sitting too hollow
because cotton was pulled too deep
when a hand grabbed at it.
now there’s mending,
but someone force-stitched their patch back
without the same care, time, or love —
and it’s not fair.


                                  "when have we ever spoken out loud?"

can’t close my eyes — these idea-creatures get too loud.
i’ve been listening to cas and drifting into pleasure,
but waking is like returning
to a world i stopped dreaming about.
it’s not passive ideation — never that simple.
people don’t know — can never know —
they latch onto what sounds mysterious.
if they truly knew, they wouldn’t call it a joke;
they’d keep living instead of spoiling it.


dolls, as is:
we are, have become, or are put to test —
gathering dust, piling in this heat.
do you mind? help me with the sewing line.
we could exchange the cotton, or whatever remains of origin.
carry a part of me, and i’ll carry a part of you.
dolls we were —
i don’t mind remaining so.


how do i take it out
at the right time, the perfect place?
the idea came halfway —
romanticizing people taking pieces away —
and there was such a perfect ending
written behind my eyes.
but i slept over it, so this is what it is:
imperfect, maybe.
perhaps one day i’ll remember
that perfect ending —
if that’s how it’s meant to be.



                                                          ­         "write:"
about dolls—
and someone stole the major piece
right from the chest,
where the heart was supposed to be.
did they exchange theirs for your own?
depend on halves; if you can’t find the whole,
or unless it’s without a heart — you’ve grown.

i call them the dud days
not a title specially crafted,
well it’s as those days got me feeling—

                            “i’ve got a very odd feeling i can’t put a name to”

    “tell me about it, what’s it like—”

sits in the weird middle space,
like a whole lot together?
something unnamed, just residing in the depths of
well—


                     “not quite sad, not quite happy, definitely not bored,
                                                          ­                              it feels heavy?”
“the mystery pack of emotions you define so sarcastically,
let’s call it the emotional soup—too hot, too spicy,
definitely bland, what’s the guarantee?”

                             “i should do something—perhaps it’ll go away.”
“7th time saying that, after asking the same thing for the 10th.”


it never does go away.
just comes in phases, several special days.
never works, anything to pacify it.
like a tornado, not quite seen until it leaves me plunging off the deep.
the touch of existential what-the-hell, a sprinkle of nostalgia,
and bouts of longing.
where do these come from?
and how am i drowning?

“like your heart’s buffering,
the graphics of self not loading quite right the first time.”
                                                         ­             “you ought to be kidding,
                                                  but that’s literally what it feels like.”

liminal space,
they’d term it that—
like déjà vu and homesickness,
a home that hasn’t come to existence.
like the one directing my movie is a philosophy major,
finding meaning in the broken, in the overlooked,
even the trash cans outside this life’s manor.

like missing something i wasn’t sure i ever had,
longing for a future that isn’t anywhere near—yet.
simultaneously i question: how do i breathe, and live?
this brain has decided to turn today into an art house film.

mood lighting dim,
shades changing, mellow.
kinda poetic, mostly annoying.
there’s no particular word—
at least in my language of sorrow.

deep, bittersweet, deliberate staying,
longing for the indefinite.
a gentle sadness that hugs instead of throwing you off your feet.
and mostly because of the passing time,
transience.
what transition this once do i have to go through? no freaks.

“describe it to me, however you may.
if i can’t help you, may as well listen and hug it away?”

                                                        ­      “the first is probably nostalgia,
                                                   the ache for something that’s gone—
                                                           ­          but i don’t know what.
                                                       not tied to one clear memory,
                                                         ­                  like a texture almost.

                                        then is the restless pull towards something.
                                          what exactly—a hard question to answer.
                                             mistakenly, if i were to pinpoint,
                                                       ­      it could be a place, a person,
                                   or even a different version of today’s present.
                                                        ­           don’t even have the map,
                                             this longing just makes me want… there.

                                                         ­            and then the foggy state—
                                   questioning: what do i do, what is the point?
                                                      feel­s like having seen too much,
                                                           ­    having seen it all through.
                                          not in a despair-filled, dramatic orchestra,
                      rather methodical: weird how life just keeps on going.
                                happening in the moment, while i’m stuck feeling
           like someone stole whatever battery i’d plugged in last night.
                                maybe it overheated, maybe the wire cracked?

                                                       ­             this chest is heavy and full,
                            the mind restless, a hamster in a wheel—circling.
                                                 ­                     thoughts disoriented.

                                                   ­                          my skin isn’t my own.
                       this body feels familiar, but distanced from the soul.
                                            weights tied around my ankles. and well,

                          i stand at the station with no ticket, no destination,
                                         waiting for a train that doesn’t even exist.
                                                          ­                          it won’t come—
                                                           ­                    but it’s supposed to.
                                                         this feeling insists it ought to.”


“first, we work through the spiral of dissociation!
answer me like it’s a quick pop quiz:
five things you see?”

                                                         ­     “current read: the cursed child.
                                                    the screen, myself in the reflection,
                                                     ­                        my hands, of course.
                                                         ­                  a red silk scrunchie,
                                                      ­                                sleeping bunny.”

“four things you feel?”

                                                        ­                   “the keyboard as i type,
                                                           ­             the bracelet on my right,
                                                  the soft threaded pattern of my shorts,
                                                         feet touching the ground—cold.”

“three you hear?”

                                                        ­                   “click clack of the keys,
                                                           ­                   the air conditioning,
                                                   ­           noise from the outside world.”

“two, quick—what do you smell?”

                                        “myself, the mystic whispers scent i picked,
                                                         ­   hand cream, coffee caramel?”

“touché. one you can taste?”

                                      “the hershey’s spread on this slice of toast?”

“you’re good to go.”



when things don’t match the script.
when planning leaves you astray.
something meant to follow,
a schedule torn midway.
like trying to connect to wifi,
reaching out, finding a signal—
but i run on airplane mode.
and the worst of all is trying to sensify:
shouldn’t have this emotion,
but the baggage trails anyway.
it just is, however it comes.

low-grade dread, a ticking clock in my head.
why the countdown—sudden, too sudden—i wish i knew.
not panic, not anxiety,
just the background hum of ought to be doing more.

                                           “what? what i’m supposed to be doing—
                                                          ­                   define it please.”

and then there’s the sense of self—
messed up.
ideas of my own mirrored back.
not rage, mere discomfort sagging my skin.
in solitude or social—why copy what wasn’t yours to begin with?
mirroring is alright, should be flattering.
but when it steps too close, in my skin?
disorienting. it’s mine to begin with.

  “pity perhaps makes the cut too, doesn’t it?”


and the almost-connections? weight of reality.
boundaries too close to shattering.
the curtain could catch fire any moment,
the candle flickers.
the ghosts of what was, what wanted, what was offered.
pressure stacking, stone on stone.
not catastrophic.
never alarming.
but every little thing tires me more.

                                            "could i rest? just once, this time again?"

a dozen emotional tabs—
not even meant to occupy space in the first place.
but they’ve been running, power-saving, gathering,
using resources.
didn’t turn on the right way,
loaded a bit too badly.
something stuck,
thus the unnamed heaviness,
hazy misplaced hiraeth.

so i stand in a crowded room, aiming to be heard,
but the voice is too low,
barely anyone can pick it up.

dud days, thus, as they come.
like someone picked the wrong mode,
the wrong settings, right before clicking
reboot, power on.
and now it’s bound to remain that way.
since the sun rose until it dawns,
i’ll be running—exhausted, overwhelmed—
masking, cynical, not wanting to let it show.
and on these days—consume chunky sugar,
lumps of carbs.
add things i like: read, watch, dream in the quiet.
mystery of love plays, reminding of a life
that wasn’t even there, never has been.
not quite the time to push through it and try.

"just breathe.
the box method?
in, hold, out, hold,
you’ll be alright."

                                                     ­                                       

                        ­                                                                 ­                  (...)




later, much later—

she tiptoes in the night.
woke to beads of sweat clinging to her skin.
was it a mere dream? perhaps lucid again.
skittered quietly to the seams,
left the room, walked outside.
soft footsteps after midnight.
opened the fridge, sat in front of it,
cross-legged, picking at wrapped-up cake—
leftover remains, from what?
barely any memory.
but the chocochips dotted happy streaks,
glitter in the cream.
a sole figure eating, messy—
a fever echo of something frivolous.
the feeling of existing,
of being in the moment.
happiness never looked any better.


                                                       ­                                                    (...)


it’s in moments, in phases, that we live.
the moon itself takes its time:
empty—halfway there—almost full—brightest one.
and well, what else remains?



                                                               ­                  knock knock!
                                                          ­         out, who’s about?
                                                          ­                                    me!
                         ­                                                           who me?
                                                     yes, you! the one you missed being.

also, do you wonder where they keep it all?
grief! of course, that is what i talk about!
humans claim to hide it so well,
unbeknownst, their own eyes commit betrayal.


"cosmic? parallelly?"


the unused sketchbooks and diaries
and multitude of journals with their materials
what do i aim for—keeping them for what possible special occasion?


"don't miss out the metaphors, i've worked ******* those"



the special i look for exists in the day
i wake up, it's sunshine-y, there's loads for me to write and say
why await the setting of the dawn, or for midnight to turn the clock
the hours could be slow, or they could drift by rapid
i could sit, sit and brood and still create—
make something that will make me happy


"there's a lot in the attic, as one does—come and go"


special is when you know it
when you make it
all of it, every second, down to the fraction
it's inhibited in me, there's pessimism
but also the contraries
and i, after consideration of the might
have come to acceptance
that it is with the light that i exist in
sometimes a bit dimmer, other times cloudy
with the weather, i flow
i'm one among them, and they're within me


"be that, like this, like them!
be who you're supposed to be, yourself a bit better perhaps?"


drafts upon drafts, multitude and vast
multiple stages of editing, perfecting
to achieve what—the inner satisfaction?
no, there sits upon a demon
ruling, guiding—this ought to be done that way
lately it's been picking
off all sorts of vibes that ought to have made it go away
but stubborn, as i were, so he's become
and now we fight for the steering
usually, when it is i who is the winner
he leaves it to chances, and skips to whisper commandments
i ought to follow with


"there's barely any space to breathe or to fit this in, jeez
do i write too much, but i ought to, rather than speak"


do i?
vanishing venues, places that were empty since the beginning
you could fill them up with people, noise, balloons
and throw a disco overnight
the next day it returns to its default
like a raccoon it sticks tight to what it was
broody, selfless, alone with the hidden lonely
and empty once more as it was found—originality?


"well, this is just completely ordinary
simply perfection, why ought i, i intend upon"


hundred-o-one ways of doing it all
i run for inspirations, getting caught in the web of holes
down i fall, up i come, and another one
and the loop continues, until i'm hit after one too many
enough spun


"cruel insights into the gravest minds, what do you see?"


the art of disappearing has become the ultimate chosen fun
and well, what do i claim?
i join forces and hold hands with all the dark suns
there's dewy morning glow and the dimness of the nights
both acceptable—oh, did you see there's stars out there tonight?


"love upon life, upon it all existing loud and high"


i caught upon five, perhaps they formed a constellation
out of them, two competed as brights
but i chose my own—shouldn't i have?
difference, there was absolutely none
perhaps in distance, but they twinkled
and one tonight called the shotgun


"oh and bright! a bit dim works!
anyway, anyhow—however you are, that runs!"


it's been a while i've seen them out and about
stars are rare, unlike haley's comet though
and well, if you just look long enough
you can picture yourself amidst
with great pleasure i present
a different writing habit, a secret hidden underneath


"why do you suffer,
why not let it seep and put them to uncover?"


search, sarge—charge upon with might
you'd bow, tell me to disclose
only i can't, for it carries too much
and well, in the bright out and about
it lies, hidden in bare sight
it's with the eyes we miss
but with hearts in sync
that you can truly see
what life's truly like


"the trails we live are followed upon by those who seeked
who we were, before they told us who we had to be
if you don't see what i mean, go back, forewith
and begin reading from the very end's beginning"

[it could be the myth of icarus,]

do you know the story of icarus?
anyone sane would term it as:
"should have followed the instruction,
step by step, instead of getting cocky—".

                                                      ­        status 1922°
     [or the juxtaposition of the height.]

but i believe, for the ones who dream
and make it poetic,
burning bright for even a while—
is a quality and deal, rarely unprecedented
unforgettable as it is.

                                                           ­                   status 1350°
                   [he reached the peak once,]

so is the urge, to fly higher, close to the sun.
it shall melt me away, melt all of my wrongs.
balance has been one for those who tread the bridges too careful.
ones for adventure, for the taste of unusual,
we tread the path less trodden, to carve out our ways,
somewhere in the middle,
claiming we won't be forgotten,
beings, screaming perusal.

                                                       ­                         status 1024°
                            [just to experience passion, a foolish's disguise.]

we, the non-frequenters, once shined upon—
the ones whose woes echo of being shadowed—
we fly when given the wings,
uncaring what end awaits.
or at which stages, takes place— the dance of the swans.

                                                        ­             status 967°
                                              [but then came the whooping reality,]

i believe, chasing the highs,
even if i were to fall,
it’s not the mistake they say i usually tend to make.
carefully crafted, formulated through unclear planning,
it's no willingness to surrender to whatever fate my love relies on.

                                                            ­                 status 852°
                         [punch to the gut, they termed them rules.]

it’s happiness.
one who claims and admits to passion—
is the dreamer, the rekindler,
there is no leaving to dead perchance.

                                                    ­                                    status 761°
       [some say it ought to have left you disgruntled.]
[he said, rules are abided by the fools]
          
(...)
                                        ­                    "and what lies beneath it all?"
(...)


     --- trended an hour ago.
[it's a dreamer's manifesto, stolen from those hiding.]

  
                                                   ­                                          when it trends
                                                     or someone leaves a sunshine behind
                                                          ­   i get notified too late, too often—
                                                          ­                           blame it on the site!

      --- trended five hours ago.
    [grounding murmurs the quiet approval.]

                                                    ­                                 but can i be honest?
                                                     that is the happiness in the moment
                                                         ­                       even as i watch it drop
                                                   like the ratings define how luck befalls
                                                   the degrees work in aiding admiration.

      --- trended eleven hours ago.
              [it only brings us grace, puts decaying thoughts at bay.]

                                                         ­                           from top of the page
                                                            ­  to something quietly forgotten—
                                                      ­  find joy in the moment, they said.

    --- trended fourteen hours ago.
                      [you can't put the minds of creatives' to rest,]

                                                        ­               this is perhaps one of those,
                                                          ­              and well, why’d i complain
                                                        ­               when it works the way i do:
                                              quietly at first, everywhere and up above,
                                                          ­  back to fading in the background.

    --- trended twenty-one hours ago.
                                [it'll aid them if the time is right,
                                         free in spirit, body a vessel — soul untied.]

                            i like whatever play of silver lining this seems to be.
                         like this little life, as chaotic and messy as it turns out,
                                                            ­                                 in it, i’m me.

       --- trended a day ago.
                                            [and if you're lucky,
                                                  you'll catch the glimpse,
                                                       a once in a lifetime,
                                                       ­    them carving poetries,
                                                               while sitting atop their graves.]


       --- trended once.

okay, imagine
for once, not the worst of it
a house, cottage-like, at the edge of the countryside
or perhaps in a small town
there's the slow mornings, lazy afternoons, and evenings smelling of comfort and vanilla
from the candle or from you?

                                                           ­everything is perfect in theory  


the curtains are the softest fabric, faint, see-through, gauzy
almost predictable, lighting up the living room
and every time the sun falls at a particular angle
it brightens up the insides, stripes in horizontal and vertical
criss-crossing, like heartbeats in a totem

music plays off a vinyl, in the corner,
the record player sits
dainty-looking, majestic—as if it owns its spot
and it does


                                                          ­   can hear the hum of the water
                                                           ­          lie in the shower, to relive



the kitchen's a mess of shades ranging from "aesthetic" to chaotic love of academia
there's stacks of books, every corner, even by the windowsill
candles and lanterns, no lighting that'd be too bright to compare what the moon leaves behind
warm, glowing dim like sunsets, golden

lava lamps, ranging in shades from purple to blues
every night, watch the stars change colors
they're there on the walls and the ceilings
the room's threaded, as if built in mattress and moss
with green vines covering every spot—wild, freeing


                                                     ­       there's so much beauty within



the unseen: journals and ink-splotched sheets
there's the love for unknown, no fear
like living in a house that sings its own rhyme
speaks its own rhythm
builds its own poem



                                              a small space encompassing a home  
                                                          ­    home is the one you're with  
                                                        in­ person, in your own



you walk in, slip through the doors
they don't creak, open with the smell of innocence and warmth
flooding in are feelings, the unspoken
soft footsteps, bare or clad in socks
making their way through the wooden flooring
the soft hum and tap of the house's backbone



                                                     ­        why did we not feel it before?




resembles a daydream from the front
the porch is filled with pots, stones, and herbs
there's a pathway through the backdoor leading to a garden so immense
lie on the grass, soft to touch, like you're on a cloud
and look up, watch the stars


              coffee, would you like that or some tea in the mornings?  
                                i'd go for a hot chocolate—marshmallows 
                       let's cook s'mores, how about you pull out a bonfire  
                                                  sit, once without the glaring screens  
                                                 the flames are gleaming,
                                   calling out something from within, see it?




the humongous, otherwise intimidating, glass panes
leading to what is the balcony, u-shaped
and it's almost like half the moon
crescent, everything to imagination
rekindling what couldn't be true


                                                 stack up the pancakes and churros—  
                                                      ­  sugar, bad in breakfast
                                                       ­    who cares, it's one life
                                               i'll live and love, may it be in disguise
                                   to worsen it all—in bed, put the tray down
                eat half-asleep, waking up to cherry-clad cupcake-y mess

and the fireplace?
oh, it sits at the bottom
beneath the show of screens, it lies, unearthened
and every time there's a fire in the furnace
it reminds, combining the breath shared, the touch, the earth
each element having come to show off its play


                                                 unpreced­ented, watering those plants  
                                                        ­they're babies, excuse me
                                                              ­   i have to enchant

close your eyes if you can see
being greeted with a hug and a kiss
and the cat hisses, almost painstakingly impressive
trying to express the day's worth of boredom
love isn't so reckless


                                        read the incantations with me  
                                      sit in the candlelight while the storm hurries  
                                      and it could be in the grave depth of nights  
                                           isn't it gruesome yet befitting
                                                       i love the nightlife

it is only cathartic, dreaming of peace
knowing achieving is like putting iron to test for coal
hoping it'd turn diamond, except even iron burns
upon contact with charcoal

have you dreamt before?
oh, something meaningful that lies in the corners
stories behind your eyes,
or the pits of your heart, hidden, well protected
the best kept secret—
we all have ours, but hiding from what?


                                                        ­                  work the work  
                          leave the thoughts of the outside where they belong
                                                          ­we've lived so hard and long
                                      dance this evening, holding hands
                                      together as we might be forlorn

uncover everything and beyond
for if they can't handle, let them fear the pressure of it
they won't stand tall
and that's how you differentiate
who handles, who is there
ingenious, romanticising the otherwise slow life
that seems to be passing by, scaring me in the process

i'd live to delude in the illusion of what lies beyond
or even parallely, there's always one of those
so here's to cheering in the midnights
typing upon the old keys, hoping it'd be the 90s
and perhaps there'd be a ball, for the ones who hope
masked as they will dance
praying upon the lunar moon
their wishes may come true


                                           lonely souls beckoned to the wishbones  
                          pull your side,
                                  do you get the shorter end or the longer?  
                                                       ­        believe as you might



light a candle at 11:11
and blow it when the clock turns 1:43
believing is inhumane
but i set my clock and timer to test
how wrong could it even possibly be?

sitting at the edge of something that’s started building anew,
the world drifts by—tiny humans busy in their own worlds, missing through.
there’s a book in my hand—it’s comforting,
the sun’s out and about, the brightness like warmth to the skin.

                                                          ­                       books on repeat too?
                                                            ­            knowing how it’ll turn out,
                                                   having seen it all, and yet once more—
                                                           it’s never just enough to put away,
                                                           ­                                       or walk out.
                                  comfort in the default, or misery in the unseen?

i’ll be tanned a bit more,
and perhaps the sweat sheen that covers
is going to leave behind a sticky residue.
but the clouds are like cotton candy this noon,
and there’s just me.

                                and perhaps people—unaware that i sit amongst
                             the ones who walk by, the ones who hear my voice,
                                      and the ones disappearing amidst the crowds,
                                                         ­                                      all too easily.

the same old playlist on repeat,
the wired earphones a tangled mess,
several chats unread, no rush to be anywhere.

                                                      ­                 i meant to reply, of course,
                                        but missed it—climbed the train of thoughts,
                                                       ­                          and it just kept going.
                                when the next stop comes, i’ll drop by the station;
                                                        ­       you’ll hear back from me soon.

i’ve tried to capture, but it’s hard to list down what i feel—
a mix of nostalgia, the good kind.
adding to the chaos are serene vibes,
and the voice of mankind.

                                                       ­      it’s funny, the more you think—
                                                          ­              they could look up, notice.
                                                         ­                            i’d be here, waving,
                                                 as if i ain’t standing at the very ending.

the world continues, but it’s slowed down for a bit right now.
and every time i move to the next page,
i realize it’s only a minute—
for me, a multitude of scenes compiled,
while the scenery at peak has gone by.

                                                        and­ the call does come, eventually:
                                                     ­                “come down, it’s your turn.”
                                                          ­ sit in a room, surrounded by folks,
                                                          ­                    so alike yet so different.
                                                      ­                                     i notice them all.
                                                            ­           hard to admit i like it there,
                                               when i’d be back, in the same secret spot,
                                                           ­    the one that now holds my lair.

and what can i say—
isn’t this what peace looks like?

                                                          ­                    the reminder app said,
                                                  “do something that makes you happy.”
                        ticked it off, after experiencing that, and writing this.

i sighted a bright orange hue
falling through the mellow curtains.
it lit up the room—
the golden hour in a mess of reds and yellows,
like a pocketful of sunshine,
dreamlike, and in its dancing, you can wallow.

                                    (existential crises caught in existential dread)

a pair of shorts, an oversized purple tee,
one that has neons etched,
screaming at the top of voice—no longer a figurine.
hitting everything but the notes,
crashing at moments—oops, i almost twisted that wrist.
god, i hope not.

                                                 (why stay stuck in what is binding—  
                                       break open, the cage is only in your head)

stole happy from the hour,
the hour opposite to the usual twilight.
off the t-shirt; a chaos container in its might,
dreaming of the innocent,
sketching out an otherworldly incident.

                                                  (th­e fairy’s wand tips everywhere—  
                                               highlighting serene and child-like joy)


midnight’s angry at me
for exchanging and finding peace in a separate symphony.
but it is no replacing—merely adding.
the list of why exist continues to grow.
i hope we never stop dreaming.

                                                     ­                     (just open those eyes—  
                                                         ­                it all exists in experience)

and in the multitude of gems,
skittles, anything rainbow-y
i have this aching habit—
always going for the shades least liked.

                    take my hand

picking them off the pack,
one by one,
i make patterns,
rid myself of the colors i wouldn’t keep.

                  through the bad and the worse and
           the best and everything better in the hearse

what remains are the favourites.
but even there, some are broken,
disguised,
faded,
enveloped in the colour of a neighbour.

                                                 agr­ee to disagree
         with everything that is and all that can be

why is it
i go for the ones i dislike first,
saving the prettiest for last?
isn’t that the misogyny?

                         word play is a game of the minds
                                            that have built up fences
                                       and play beyond the lines

is it conditioning—
accept the bad,
consume it in its entirety?
at first, the sweet is deserved
only when you’ve done something worth
being skittered.

                                 eat the cream in the mousse,
                                               leave behind the bread

is it arranging experiences,
or feelings—
love for later, the sad for now?
but wouldn’t the sad exist
even when i’m grown
and ready for what i didn’t allow before?

                  the kind of thing that’d make you worry

devaluing my own preferences—
is it about beauty,
about order,
or just about wanting relief?

                              what i took weren’t drugs at all!
                                                           d­on’t blame me

patterns of self-denial,
the don’t be selfish thing.
am i punishing myself,
or is it
subconscious self-erasure?

                   see butterflies in the midst of daydreams
                             and they flutter like my heartbeat

and on days when i’m angry,
frustrated,
i care not for the colour at all—
only for the sweetest flavor
that might take away
the bitter.

                             took the wrong pills, now i’ve got
                                   tiny little hearts on my skin

[they’ve said it before.]

wrote several letters
to everyone i knew,
expressing and explaining
the disappointments—
why it all came down to

                                                             ­                    angry, or frustrated,
                                                     ­                     the slightest of adoration,
                                                      ­                or any other forlorn feeling,
                                                        ­                                        put to words,
                                                          ­      like it was always meant to be.

                         [they keep saying it, every now and then.]

i wrapped them up,
grandiose, titled “from me to you,”
jotted down the addresses—
or what i remembered of them,
sealed them with a kiss
and an unmistaken first memory at hand.

                                             expectations are the worst kind of play—
                                                           ­                      the silver lining pulls,
                                                          ­                 almost as if it has known,
                                                          ­                                and yet it’s there
                                                           ­                              every single time
                                                            ­          to teach us something new.

                   [write it down—everything that hurts.]

i was almost ready to post,
to make them find their right owners,
and perhaps that would have resolved it all.
but you can’t change made-up minds,
can’t change the way you think,
or the way i feel,
can’t change anything—
i guess it really is all about free will.

                                                          ­             oh but, wishes? and hope?
                                                           ­      i thought at least—at least now
                                                             ­                  it’d be understandable.
                                                 ­                               but god, we lost it all.

                                               [strike the lighter. put it to test.]
  
the letters lit up
in the prettiest of shades.
i held them from the corner,
watched them rise up
in alluring flames.
i guess, one way or another,
they found their right place—
at the pit of my drawer, spread out.
and every time i remember
any of what i wrote,
any of what i wanted to say,
any time i see the ones
who were supposed to receive them one day,
my hands come up—
fingers covered in soot and ash
of what once was, what could have been,
now lives in the pocket of my memory film,
leaving chance and love at bay.

                                                           ­             it wasn’t really necessary,
                                         but i guess we do things out of the ordinary,
                                                       ­                    to put ourselves at peace,
                                                          ­                               to give reasoning
                                                       ­                 to what we made-believe.

                         [and if the flame splutters, halfway through—]

us—
weird, silly play-things.

                                                  ­         figured at least you’d have seen.

     [then go find the one whose name followed the “to.”]

"there's this special restaurant
they say who goes in, never comes back out the same
they make you dishes and desserts, based on what you seem,
what they feel,
and how they'd like for you to feel

would you like to join me, tonight?
as we test out whatever theories,
and whether they are—indeed?"


                                                 ­                                         ingredient list:

                                                         ­   pixxeleted hearts, finely chopped
                                                         ­    candied pop-tarts, for garnishing
                                                      ­               hazelnut-dipped muscle bits
                                                            ­                   chocolate-washed eyes
                         curls that give off vanilla, coffee, and something floral
                                                          ­                       dead black butterflies
                                                     ­        beaded bracelets, aside in plating
                                   slabs of skin, bones to replace broth and chicken
                                                         ­            shared oxygen for the fumes
                                                         cut-out windpipe, as the emulsifier
                                                      ­   figurines of the coral, teetered cores
                                                           ­          bruised black-and-blue tints
                                                           ­                moths burnt by the flame
                                                           ­                        windchime’s whines
                                              the hands that held each other previously
                           the words that carved their way into lives, in fantasy

                                    [and anything else that reaches up to the mark,
                                                                ­                             ***** privacy.]


"look at the reviews!"

[candlelit faces, captured in photos
to be put upon the cake
made up with retched-up echoes
the expressions do look kind of terrifying.]

“perhaps it’s the mystery, or the thrill of what it really is like?”


                 the basics of delicacies to be cooked this way: the recipe

                                      picture the perfect occasion, the right memory
     turn it haunting, daunting, or how it could have turned out to be

[the cynical monster—the one who holds the ladle
they can’t be happy in someone’s happy
not just ’cause they’re jealous
so they make up what they’d like for them to be
their closest, the ones they invited to their own party

oh, we’re going off track—back to the dial]

                                                     turn up the burner, the highest flame
                                                  cook two: the main course and the side

                              start with the ingredients, the softer ones go at last
                                       take hold of what needs to be soaked, melted
                                                          ­     put in the oven, baked just right
                                        sizzled in the oil, fried until it turns out right
                                  simmer the sauce, the right red from their blood
                            cook it until it turns a darker shade, a bit too ******
                                                          ­            nothing raw, nothing funny

                                                          ­                the music is their screams
                                focus if they seem even a bit too excited or cheery
                                                          ­                      take it away, take it all
                                                       leave behind the hollow, the shallow
                                                         ­                                of what once was

[but they bleed on the floor,
by the table, they cry for redemption, for revival
does anyone hear them at all?
what do you cook, so focused—
as if you see nothing else?]


"would you like to see the menu?"

                                    "give us your specials"

"you are our specials
wait while we alert the masters"


                                                     ­                                           the menu:
                                                          ­                 appetizer...who you were
                                                            ­        mains...what you’ve become
                             dessert...all that happy, garnished with the evil eye
        souvenirs...dolls of you, protected by the curse of michelin now

                                                            ­                         we hope you like it!

"to keep the experience memorable
we’ve got a souvenir for you:
come visit us the next time too!"

[present, packed perfect—
two dolls resembling what existed
muscles to replace cotton
stitching the doll at seams with veins and nerves]


                                             [at the bottom of the menu, the line reads:]

                                                        ­            if love’s a dessert in making
                                                          ­     the contrary, whatever dark it is
                                            from the one who carries this murk against
                                                         ­                     ruthless, striving to aim
                                                             ­    at whoever seems to have it all
                                                      they have turned it into a rotten dish,
                                                                ­                 dried and shriveling.

the night’s darkness
is what makes the moon shine as it does.

words are quintessential,
but i just realized what it’s like—
                                        to be.

                                                   would you consider me as eloquent?

and whether it’s twilight
or solar noon’s midnight,
  the moon never really disappears;
it only chooses its phases—
of healing, of feeling,
just to reappear.

                                                      ­              need not be whole to exist

on its own accord, it lives.
a cycle it follows, as it believes.

                                                             i'm not one behind the solicit

you see the relation,
or must i make it simpler
for you to swallow?

                                                got the expression, lack the gift of gab

find a barren field,
softest land, good company.
lie down.

                                                  the unknown is a beautiful landscape

draw through the stars,
fill constellations
with every doubt, every scar.

                                                          ­                 the moon will be there.

whimsical—
is what you'd call it.
                                   believe them when they say, 'no lies'

                     [don't believe me, still?]

there's a galaxy,
seen through the naked eye,
if you look close enough
in the x-ray of my ribs.
                      
     accept what could be the one chance, don't fight!

                       [shh, it's a secret!]

and it lights up!
like christmas lights,
every time i feel too much,
leaving me jittery.

          not all good— the world is made up of

           [all good, but i can't find the power source!]

you think it's the aftershocks
of so many bulbs
coming to life together?

                                keep close, keep close, keep close!

             [they flicker sometimes too, you know]

or is it the side effect of feeling—
feeling when i'm hollow
for the world,
anyway, whatsoever.

      acceptance comes easy here, just let yourself fall.

              [no comments? meh, disappointed. not okay!]

                                                   you'll be okay.

"you have to wake up.
        it's just a dream."

                                                      h­olding—
                                                         ­       almost there, right there—
                                 just wait, wait, wait... you have to stop, alright.

                  right here, right here beside.
                     wait up, just a few minutes.
            let me reside,
                       find a spot to rest.
                      i can stay here, i have you and everything—
                                             just let me please—

"it's just a bad dream."

                                               no—a good one! you don't see what i see.
                       the visions of the broken ones,
               they don't fit,
                           they're out of place.
                                  but oh god, the kind of puzzle pieces they make!
                                            fill it up, tone it down,
       the broken lines and misshapen circles
                                             aren't really all they're about.
                                     there's so much more!

"what do you see?"

                                                          ­     everything—
                                      everything is right here.
                                                         i just need to grab.
                                              can't leave, won't leave.

                                                       how can you pull me away like that?

"but it is a dream, you ought to agree by now."

                                   no, no—there was a call.
                       a phone, a telephone booth wherein i stood,
                        and i was dialing, the number at the tips—
                    let me write it down, will you please?
                         hand a paper—here you go:
                          1111-787—
                       ­    good heavens,
                                                   i can't remember what came afterward.

                     could i go back? i have to.
                          tonight, it's lucid—i can, perhaps.

"but is it okay for you to?
why don't you exist in what you can see?"

                                                          ­do you dream while you're awake?

"do you see what stands at stake?"
        
                                       nothing that i wouldn't be glad to miss.
                                    the unseen has so many meanings—
                                                       ­                 what do you even believe?
                                                        ­    do you not wish upon an eyelash,
                    or dream of the best things when the clock strikes 11:11?

"i've been missing out on both,
losing trust if it's really worth to own."

                             foolish, fools in becoming.
                                                 the current might not be the right place,
                                                      but you're the right one in dreaming.

            belong right here, nowhere else but in that dream.

"you're insane."

                                                       ­   then why are you following me in?

"'cause you're insane—
and i belong right in the group of misfits you reside between."




                                                   ­                                                             (...­)

in a snow globe, one that holds late autumn,
our backs ache from standing too tall, too long.
so here we sit beneath a naked tree,
surrounded by dried leaves,
sharing cinnamon buns and hot chocolate
on a bench, freshly painted.

and it’s a dream-town—
nothing too real,
only imagination spun in the web
of what refuses to bargain with our happiness.
we’re happy here.

in the snow globe:
boundaries, protected, glass-like,
waiting for someone to shatter it,
to bring us back
to what they call their ideal.


                                                        ­                         we're the dreamers.

can the admiration spoken through eyes
leave behind stains like glitter
on the skin of the admired?
                                                   you’­d be sparkling then.

and if perhaps there was color involved
to speak for what feelings belonged to which stare—
what would be the color of love,
and that of despair?
of hope, and of kindness—
the contrary, disgust and hatred;
of need and of want,
of happy, protection, and all the unspoken whats.
                                      would it be cosmic patterns,
                                    or stardust bruises,
                                                   no one spared?

if emotions could color,
                                         i’d paint you a universe
                                               mixed with all but the negatives,
                                    a scenario that holds everything bright.

and if voices could leave behind indents,
would there be stars imprinted
for every time a heart relapsed in presence,
or tiny little dots intricated
where kisses were worshipped by the bespoken?
                                                   you­’d have spirals—
                                          confetti or nebula—
                                      for every time someone went cross-eyed
                                                      ­        envisioning you.

and they say eyes don’t lie—
could you travel in between galaxies,
or initiate what could only be termed
as being blinded and binded by a spell so strong,
                                                   not the red string,
                                  but something more and beyond?

spring hues or winter blues,
through and through—
could there be no in-betweens,
and no catastrophe,
                               as we head for what is ours and has been,
                                            on everything we set our minds to?

break the bounds of time,
the bows and ribbons,
and everything that messes it;
don’t break, but untie through them.

                                                                    escape with me
in between the canopies and shells
of what could only be termed
as a fool’s daydream—

                                a little made-up, enchanting gleam.

[unit online.]
"say name?"
                                                                                       i. it is i.

[(pick up pick up pick up)]
                           
                                           [(the number you’ve dialed does not exist)]

breathe in breathe out breathe in breathe out breathe i-

from backbone to belief
tinged in raw, unspoken, spite
love it—
if you can make believe

[(epigraph. short-term.
                                         apocalyptic.
                                                                feelings’ invasion)]

will you not say out the sorrows?

"i’ve found it—
the cure."

                                   "replace."

           just like that—
just.

no but, that’s not humane!
not fair—
                                                need to, have to, has to be done

4:19 ½ minutes
the time has stopped.
bad news—bad bad bad
but it grounds.

stopped noticing the 11:11.
too shallow.
                           but but but—can’t you read?
too sarcastic!


                                   i live.
in front of you.
in front of the blues.
face to face with everything she hides—
on the inside.
monsters, birthed out of mind,
of their own.
double heads.
triple—
or even more.


[too high.]
     high on what stings—
                   "not the good stuff."

alive.
                                                           [(how long?)]

inner dialogue,
messy, troubled.
get rid of everything
that could **** it up.

not her.

                                                 don’t, please.
                                              not her too.

happened once.
needs to be done twice more.
three exist.
one can’t live, while—

song of the stars.
hear it in the nights.
the winds carry,
so do the skies.

[(can you hear me?)]

               [checking voice, loading power.]

                          [(yes, you can be heard. speak up!)]

[initializing doubt.]

drought of the skies.
the sun’s fallen out.

                                                                poetic.
                                                                    too poetic.

tragic tale,
haven’t you become?

are you sure?
pulling the cords—
              [(in 8…7…)]

voices.
two people—
to and fro.

  [initializing robots:]
  one asking for vitals,
  the other for machine stuff,
  claiming facts.
  internal dialogue.
  the robots’ voice.

"let’s put down the eyes.
they shall change upon reaction.
turn violet for adoration."



soft spots—being taken care of.
                                                        [(killing, slowly.)]

"does it hurt?"
                                  does—does—
                                                    too much.

"she’s screaming
  hold her down!
she’s going to hurt—
  she’s bleeding—"

                cut out—so pretty.
forgotten, yes—will be.
  not you.
    you.
      not you.
        myself.

               ouch ouch ouch.

"the blade—take it out.
went too deep—stitches!
  losing her!"

                                            protect—save—replenish.

"need blood."

zolofts and prozacs.
                         (how have you been living?)



                                    [(thrown away, aside, what have you done?!)]

"no.
needs to be real.
exchanging, replacing.
needs to be human."

making notes—
of all the ways
been scorned.
see it in the eyes.
tell loads more.
what words might
even compare with—

                            dial tone, stretched too long.
    can you become just another unit?
                to be replaced
     anytime you break a cord?

                    no—how can you!

[(breaking in.
                collecting data.
                                 unlocked grief.
                                                          data overloaded!)]

                                                                                               [(warning!)]

unit being replaced—
      [overwriting the memory.]

can’t do—can’t do.
             "why’d you do?"
                                            it’s cold here.

          [(system glitching, not syncing)]

was fun.
can’t do.
lasted long.
left to—
struggle.
accept.
soft spots.
too soft.
tender.
bruised.
                                         (have you any bandaids?)


love love love love love love lover—
                   [baby, do you recognize?]

[(they won’t believe)]

but they can.
can do.
will.
        please.
got to.

i warn you.
                               [warn—please—take care—]
             [please let me just, for once—]
                            can i keep it whole?
                       with me?
                                  i’ve dreamt.

can i keep going?

                   fake fake fake fake fake fake fake fake fake.

[(downloading memories.)]

foggy. disoriented.
"she’s dissociated—bring her back."

going cross-eyed.
  help—no, don’t—
  (stay away.)

     stay stay stay stay stay.

[(they said—
            spoke.
                       screamed.
                                       ignored.
                                                     sighed.
                                                                  belittled.
                                                                                 lied.
                                                                                          shied.)]


 stay stay stay stay stay


444
everywhere.
                             (protection? or giving up)
a sign to move—
or to stay, to pause.

the time stopped.
                      [failed.]
resurrected, restarted—
went around again.


[this robot has been discarded]
                                       replacement found, once again.





"but you reside in the screen!"
                are you even real to me?

down.
some more.
a few more.
uncover what hides.


                                  i’ll be done soon.

that isn’t real—
not me—
but her.
                                                                      (she carries forward—
                                the days, masked, protecting, pretending)

[beware.]

they strike
where it hurts the strongest,
                                       (at times when you’re the weakest)




believed the monsters!
not fair.
            not fair not fair not fair.
                                  
                                                             [when has it ever been fair?]


it’s gone
                                  
and it spreads—
untimely
it was made to look like an accident
did it knowingly—
she knew! she’s known!
fools, hah, foolish

three questions—three. shoot.
                                               (the genie in the lamp awaits)
can you rub it out?
goes like this—
a little up and down,


                                     "this way—
                           that way—
                                      far away—"
                                  [back to everywhere you surround]


(deliberate)
                 knowingly did that—
                                              filled up.
[ears. voices.]
                           all wrong.
                          lies—don’t believe—don’t—


you’re losing her—


                                                                     but you're losing her—



fractured. potent.
whatever could have remained,
upgraded the version.
              [virus scanning—done.]

replacement will be—
                                     [(accepted or rejected?)]

[proceed with emotional residue cleaning.]

                    [(cannot quantify feelings)]
built up. broken down.

[(the core temperature is rising)]
                                                              can’t breathe.
[oxygen intake: insufficient.]

                                   (she’s gone)
                       you’re here.
                                         continue.

[collapsing bootloader]
there’s a lot.
            
"can we not pull the strings?"

                                                                          too tight.
                                                             these bounds.
                              (help me, please.)


        help help help help help somebody can you—


                                                                   why kind—

could be the nightmares
they dream about.





[(previous model had same issues)]

                    "compatible in the beginning."
[(can’t match the original)]

                     "eventually delete the original."

                                                                                  [did it ever exist?]

       [(fatal error: consciousness loop ending soon.)]

                                                                            [duplicate.]

[(resorting to copying a cheap system
log files corrupted
unresponsive. unresponsive. unresponsive.)]

                                           [deliberate intentions, at destruction]


"see the wounds,
caused by rough aggression."
                                                                    [who hurt you?]

                 (should have stayed away)

soft creatures of the earth.
weaklings, aiming at love.

[water detected in the system]
                 close to the eyes.
[entering details:]
                          [(tears.)]

how’d a body cry—
so numb, yet so alive.

                  significantly staring,
                                    into the distance
                        gaping.
                                                    smile.

     hey—smile!

[life’s just the beginning]

[mechanical,
and cruelly intimate]

they break hearts,
shatter minds.

                         (with no doctorates)

speak of promises.
swear on lives.
give you the gaze—
to hide their disguise
beware the ones in the bright.

                                          [exchanging memories]
[files being hacked.]
                         stop stop stop stop stop stop.
oh.
                                                           (that is what hurt?)

[giving up]

"the body seems to be giving up."

contradictory monstrosity
                                                                            why’d you pull?
let the happy stay

[the body is cooling]
                                                                            what do we do?
[relapsing to original settings]

                                                 [(can’t)]



the sparkling pop i got in the fridge
feels peachy.
can i kiss—
    the poison

                 it’s sweet—too sweet—

                                                       hiding—
                                                                           shhhh
                                            they can’t know.

                      but i want to—i need to—

"alert the authorities
we’re losing her."

[irregular pulse]
[dilation]
"confirming heartbeat?"
                                                 lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub

                 is it a heartbreak?

[releasing pressure]
[flushing venom]

"**** the body."

                                                              (grip the soul)
"transfer it."

don’t go wireless—
it’ll fly away home

                       (every time — the same way)
threw the darts
from the same tray
tools rusty, shining slimy red
                                                               (blood isn’t as thick—)

could it be because the heart did?
sampling metaphorical wounds
turning grey, danger looms
stitch them up, keep them close,
[mark: fragile]
"transfer body into soul"
                                                                            "soul is infected"
  [treat with care, approach with caution]


[(state of body: mind and heart appear to be just organs)]


disproportionate
falling into twilight
the midnight’s rain—
have you become it?

oh love, my love
the anti-hero
a little death
count it—
close to zero



especially if it rains
sky is weeping—
where lies the sun?
did it become the sunset,
or just the leaves that shed?

                                                           (contradictions of the mind:
                                                      of grief and of hope)

a circus, playing out loud—
time notices you

                                   (how long have you lived with doubts?)

oscar-worthy tears
falling, rehearsed
yet never false

[error]
[log back in]

[new body not supported]

             [(robot not functioning)]
                                            (short circuiting)

why the loop

[original file: trash it]

                                                                      (emotions not supported)

               [logging in the credentials]
            [invalid]

   "need to get rid of the body"
"answer the security question:"

do you know her?
                                             (yes)
                                                                          no, you didn’t

[where has it gone?]

   "can’t find the hard drive"

vessels of the mind, put them aside

                                                                        it’s peaceful
                                                      have i been released?


requiem
say the word—
          did you dream?
farewell, to the neverlands
sending regards
robots, onlookers, I—
              can’t you see m—
a matter of time
queuing up
somebody else—about you
fragment the comparison
treat the playlist
become the one
diagnosed with humans—
           how do they say it?
expression never existed
bittersweet sorrows
lie down here



(rest)
                (don’t put to test)
                 pull out the battery before it drains,
               can’t change it
                 can’t bring it back to life

[(shutdown imminent)]

                        [(starting countdown)]

                                                                  (11…10…9…8…)

           beep beep beep
[static]
                                        clink, click, clink, click






"make someone fill the forms
need consent—shall we proceed?"

you’ll never see her anywhere
to continue, please sign here:

                    
                                                    signed in agreement?


it is.




[return initiated]
[failed]

[(discarding in process)]


"do we get rid of the hard drive too?"


                                        "stolen! it was stolen, last night
                                             but how can a robot—
                                                                unless—"

[(discard failed)]




                                                    issued a star, will it not scar
                                         once issued, cannot be—



can never be replaced, but—


           permanent issue detected, unit offline.

                                                                                                     what if.

sweet little hearts
let me bake some cookies filled with tar.
chunky little pieces of choco chips—
they’ll be muddy, unlike anything you’ve ever tasted.

                                                        ­        "said you aimed for violence"

i’ve been told i get my hands in gravel,
push boundaries, lead to lovers’ quarrel.
but he who doesn’t know—
it’s easy to blame it.
right behind you, coming for you,
i’ll make sure you get a piece
of the cookie’s unlucky unravel.

                                  "complained you're just a game to begin with"

oh, and by the way,
i’d be sure of saying things
when the situation’s like you,
and in your place, i can be blamed.
look around and about all whom you tame.
sometimes it’s in the skin that the snake sheds;
reality can be misleading
when you’ve got ghosts as friends.

                                  "mentioned keeping distance to protect peace"

so yeah, a sweet little bakery by the townside.
walk by or walk in—
you’ll see something in the light.
it burns a pretty hue;
you will barely notice it coming towards you.

                                           "murmured a silent jinx in your passing"

put me to shame.
i’ve heard the tiny little mishappenings.
off the chart goes your game—
you’re bound to stay committed,
but it’s slipping, and i’m leading.

                                   "fulfilling the attachment leading to isolation"

i’ll just say: look out.
the tar cookies are aiming.
perhaps a bite, a chew—
cement in your mouth.
you wouldn’t think of spitting ****,
except only if you really knew,
either way, nothing worthy is going to come out.

                                                           ­      is a ***** little liar in finding

would you like a drink to go with?
i’ll add the special kind of sweet—
salted gasoline, fits like you trying to give birth to fire.
if it’s really my habits, presence, or everything i desire,
then try to set it up in flames, all that i have—
and i’ll come to use your name.

                                                          ­                seeking attention, who?

would you like me to add the foam that fills up the ears,
and a flavor that can sharpen and cut through the tongue,
just so all the words you pick out
won’t **** with my gears?

                                                         ­                              caught in the act

i’d be careful if i were you.
*******’s alright—you think you’re pulling it through.
assuming i seem to be enjoying,
you wouldn’t have any charcoal by any chance,
considering that heart is absolutely rotting anew?




                                                       ­  a few cookies burnt, care for one?

born winged.
                                                         ­    but why’d you skip the reality?

          who spoke for me?
                   i exist as you do.

you know,
they stripped me of my wings
back when i could fly so high.
innocently enough, i complied.

they said the procedure helped,
claimed it’d grow out my wings—
and they could change colors!
i wanted black ones.
who knew they were ripping off the existing
just so i could be termed the fallen?

                                         how did you believe so quick, so dumbly?

              who's ever too quick?
                      how do you see through the adulterated?

childish, barely with the brains,
aching to prove,
i went through the burning—
watched them set each feather to flame.
tragically enough, this became a dire tale.
who would’ve thought
they’d take away the truth’s escapade?

                                                      ­            did it hurt? even the falling?

     does it ever really stop hurting?

i wonder that too.
don’t remember much from the process and after,
but i remember fearing how it came down to—
was it so wrong?
having wings, using them—never to show off though.

they said it took way too much attention,
made me look like i’d become a seeker.
but shallow, surface-level,
they were such viewers.
no wings worked,
as long as i could escape their disgusting sewers.

i fell, and i fell.
for a long time there were no holdings for me to attach.
but then it shone—
like someone blowing out the candle
to light up the moon.
and then i realized
i sat upon the tomb.

                                                         ­     your own? how could that be?

       have you never visited the grave of who you were,
              a long time ago?

of the wings, of what they came down to—
mere bones in the structure.
i’ll take you someday,
they’re the prettiest rupture.

                                                       ­                   why do you hide now?

       can you really ever hide for too long?

they’re back once more,
this time after the halo.
i’d kept it safe, hidden.
they now claim it’s too bright, too golden.

there’s barely any glitter
over the remains,
and i’ve got wounds that spasm
during the nights when the urges drain.
so i stitch the halo to myself.
won’t give it out—
no matter what worth it sells.

was mine to begin with,
my own company to rest in.
if they’ve got problems,
they could very well seek the curse of the fallen.

                                                        ­             you mean from the fallen?

     i couldn’t really curse,  
             but might as well bring them to my tombstone.

at rest, phantom winged.

recurring chances of the night,
cherry skies and moonlit hides.
i’ve written in red,
stolen the ink off my veins,
and the page is a murky black
from all the soot you’ve blown
and all that you’ve turned to ash.
                                                            ­       sweet little lies

don’t see what i write,
an idea for treacherous minds.
set fire to the edge of what covers us this time,
let the boundaries catch flames and rise alike.
what lies outside is old, forgotten, beyond—
i’ll take back the rose-tinted glasses.
mind the spirits, spare the forgiven.
                                                       ­          berry spiked ice

don’t return, even if you see the ghosts.
for the protection only lasts so long;
step out of this circle, blow out the candles,
grip the bouquet too tight,
slip a little of that letter to the side—

ouch, you’re long gone.

                                                                venom dusted in rose

oh, i forgot—
i brought a flower for you.
can you ***** yourself
with the thorn?


                                                        ­                   ingredients:
                                                               love in disguise,  
                                                     ­ cherry champagne,  
                                                    ­         black roses,
                                                          ­                turn them grey!  
                                                         ­            do baby’s breath,  
                                                       ­           a couple orchids,  
                                                      ­      a pretty violet-y mess,  
                                                         ­      lily of the valley—have you?  
                                                     a little bit of glitter, as moonlight.



drink up!

so writing began to slow me down
and feeling too much brought flaws to play out.
looked up pharmacies,
injected myself with rotting caffeine,
but the tire didn’t go away.

turns out it was emotional burnout—
how could i let it stay?

                                                          ­               what have you done!

uh-oh, just took the brain out for a while,
i’ll put it back in, don’t you worry.
it needed rest,
i needed cleansing.

                                                  th­e blood— the stench— oh my god,
                                                            ­               how are you standing?

oh— do you see behind you?
right, that’s where the heart is.
took it out as well,
apologies if it’s leaking all over your bedding.
don’t you worry,
it’s only a while, i’ll stitch it back in.

                                                            ­    your veins— why do they—

umm… they needed stretching?
kidding. they were intoxicated,
high on everything lately.
wondered if i could tone it down,
turns out you can’t work without a brain,
a heart,
or functional veins.

umm— could you help me break it down?

                                                          ­  but why do you bleed in black?

that’s red— a bit dark, sure.
i’ve been meaning to flush and consume fresher.
but what do i do?
they all got rot on the insides.
how do i get the fresh batch
when there’s no sunshine?

oh my darling in drowning,
would you like a cup of coffee
while you try to swim?
i could call a lifeboat,
throw you a jacket—
but would you promise not to pull me in
if i let you hold my hand?
                                                           ­                            hush little baby,

no—why do you wonder i messed with your drink?
why do you not breathe
as i pull you closer?
why say my name as if it is the end?
                                                                ­                           don't you cry

look alive,
darling in drowning.