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?

complexities of us:

the unfamiliarity to it
comes off as uncomfortability
in the beginning.
but then i look back,
and i stare, zooming in and out,
grasping—this is the reality.
suddenly, it doesn't feel so bad;
looks okay, feels alright.
only, please, let me keep it all hidden
for a bit longer, bouts of while perhaps,
just for tonight.

what's the perfect opening?
to begin with it—
is it picking out a line from a list of prompts,
or playing music when the shadows swarm?
i believe it's hope and faith misplaced,
out of scope, of happiness and of exacerbation.
some words come to me,
like someone in my head plucked them out
of a locked away, hidden library.
and there are sentences, feelings
that are yet to find their place in a dictionary.
so i hold, and put forward
this ultimate piece stitched carefully.
a proclamation, if you must—
i hope you don't deny
that it indeed was poisoned, misspoken gust.

she's the precious kind
do you mind?





galaxy of masks:

masks upon masks,
just so the real ones are never visible.

where do we plan on heading,
hiding who we are
and watching ourselves disappear?
why cement the original, the real,
to show an illusion people'd like?
we lose our own shadows of individualism,
and still become whatever they continue to despise.

actors are lucky—
can be anything they want.
and even though it's all fake,
that's their job.
people dismiss them,
preach the characters they own.
they can become anyone,
and i can't even be myself.
now that's just forlorn.
they get applauded,
while i get cremated.
i do just the same—
they earn, i protect.
they flash, i burn.

and when you think you're late
that's when you're actually late.
so easy for them to say,
like they didn't need to struggle to live.
despite it all, they continue to pretend,
and so do i,
that i like them.
the smile that can hide everything for me
is something i'm thankful for.
is this the gratitude i'm meant to journal down,
or a selfish gift that i grew up with?
should i not talk about it?





cosmic revelations:

we're all stars.
stars on a big star,
surrounded by many more,
creating galaxies, preaching astronomy.
what were we made for?

i often don't know what to wish for.
is it health, happiness, or taste of the unknown?
so i stand in front of the lords,
hoping to find some quiet.
and peace does exist,
only it slithers away, as if washed off by the mighty.
i bow down, offer my all,
say i'm here, let me keep it whole.
i glance through the mirrors,
little somethings at the back of my throat.
adrenaline promises the thrill
of what living should have felt like—
if life wasn't so dead, furthermore.
the only moments i feel it pulse,
the blood thrums under my veins.
it sulks.

the sun took birth
after a collision and collapse
of a molecular cloud—term it star.
the brightest in the sky right now,
a miracle, like us.
and in your life,
as the biggest star of all,
yet you choose to fall down
after the slightest push.
wear and tear and suddenly we're misunderstood.
the world could end,
the galaxy could burst open
any given day—
you'd wake up, turn into dissipated matter.
and you worry about
that one thing,
or a list of multiple,
and claim this is the end
of your life and your empirical?
loathsome towards the sky,
have you seen how it looks during the night?

observe it through documentaries:
such a small piece of matter,
surrounded by so many
that are alike, yet destruct and differentiate.
even if they don't understand,
you could always.

it's only at a distance that spring seems green.
up close, it's floral, filled with allergies—
and they don't always mention
the bouts of issues that it comes with.
it's only at a distance
that it seems worth boasting.
does spring even exist,
or are we permanently a part of stark winters?
then why does it always melt off the skin—
all that we hide, and all that we wear?
mayflies live for a day,
it's their whole lifetime,
while you waste away.

when you drift through the night,
speeding up, watching the stars align,
you can almost make out how it isn't all too real.
surreality exists in the traffic lights
and cars drifting by.
it's bound to stay all up in my head this time,
so i need not write about how it was to kneel
and claim enjoyment when it lasted for seconds.
i've lived enough—enough to understand
when i've become unwanted.

from lorde's david,
to laufey's lover girl,
the kiss of venus,
and summing up the life of the one—
everyone in this party's a vampire.
so i've put on their teeth,
ready to bite.
except mine barely break through skin,
while theirs leave marks along a rhythm.
they can tell when it's a mess within your head,
but they wouldn't do anything.
make it a ghost town.
they'd **** the marrow of life.
like the blood moon, you'll be looped into hellfire.
i didn't even know how bad it stung,
until i saw the red turning black—
all over my arms, now they account for places.
all the spots that shone the brightest
are now dimmed.
brown spots, burnt.

a person with many thoughts makes fewer mistakes—
that's just a lie, cause the thoughts give out stories
of the what ifs, and of all that is fake.
and i look back a lot.
most of my own
count as actions questionable,
even though i've thought about it a hundred times—
enough for my head to explode.

the tale of nonchalance leaves me bereft.
isn't it like—
you're afraid to be read,
cause what if they don't like what they see?
but what if them not liking you
makes you dislike yourself—
and that's all that you believe.
the moon has craters.
up close, it looks like a giant ball, imperfect,
filled with marks and depths.
and yet every night you sit,
praying, admiring
the same moon, the same hollows that you carry.
if you could preach self-acceptance,
then maybe you wouldn't grieve
someone else's ignorance.
the codependence lies within yourself.
they could or could not—
you're left with you.
that's all you got.
so live a little, baby,
even if you make mistakes.
if they love you,
they'll correct and still accept you the same.





weeds of hope:

often saving up stories, reels, images
that i'd like to keep in my memory.
i don't read it all,
instead promising that one day
i'll either use them
or take inspiration to write my own.
except all that i've learnt,
the crazy crashing innocence—
there is hope within,
even though i might not see.
i could say i wouldn't want to wake up,
i'd want to sleep forever.
but all the saved up diaries,
waiting to be written into,
and through all the saved, shared, linked posts—
hope exists.
doesn't really show in the way it must,
but in other ways,
like saving the cheesiest bite
for the last take.

hope is beautiful,
even though it is never sure—
like the real home is with the right person,
the walls decoration, accessories on bodies of them all.

you don't look back—
that's the key to keep going.
but i do it often,
a way of letting go
and moving.
i've looked back,
when i was sure no one would be waiting.
and i saw tiny figures in the mist of dark—
they were leaving.
for the first time in a long time,
it didn't feel like the ultimate ending,
yet it was the closure for me.
done, complete.

i've been keeping a track of all my greens—
the plants, the flowers, and how they stopped blooming.
the prettiest of extras, weeds they call them.
i watched them grow, unsure if i should crop them.
now they've taken over,
grown to heights the plants could never.
and they seem more in place than the originals—
except in the long run you and i both know
they'll ****, no matter how we look.
weeds have to be removed.

i removed the weeds off my plants today.
prettiest, shadowy, soft, almost as if they belonged.
and now they lie on my desk,
drying away through as the sun sets.
perhaps they'll be stacked among the pages
of my books, as bookmarks, memories and stages,
as people who've drifted in closer and walked away.

even though they weren't meant to stay,
the weeds gave me an idea:
phantoms do stay,
so the leaves as well.
and they might not have belonged in the plants,
but they did grow, and it isn't all too bad.
the plants are alive still.
the flowers might bloom again.

breaking:
a poet's try at uncovering the depths of conveying,
will they be able to—
or die and turn missing?


they've messed up what the actual book looked like,
now it's become 101 ways to show and disguise.
it's methodological,
not worth following,
yet they've become walking fools,
need people to guide them.

it starts like the flicker you feel
before a moment that begins,
opening up to a new feeling,
like before starting a book you don't know yet—
will it heal, hurt, or stay with you
as a memory or the haunting truth?

one whose ending isn't so clear.
i haven't read the summary,
or the genre,
or what people might think of it.
i still hold it dear.

the unpredictables are exciting.
i walk through chapters,
pausing on the torn pages,
moving on hoping it'd make sense,
stitching my own words during the lost stages.

what is this blurb of my story meant to look like?
i wouldn't write my own prologue,
if you handed me the choice.

keeping egos aside,
only if they'd talked to listen,
it wouldn't have seemed so childish,
couldn't have ended as a lost forbidden.

i'll start ignoring the truths
the moment it becomes one among psychology.
finding reasons, of all the felonies we commit,
it only spoils it—
whatever does seem to exist.

and not to mention,
reasoning tires me out.
i could save your name,
only you've promised to drain me out.


trend o' one:

the language over screen
is hard to be read unless you think like me.
so i say and regret,
knowing it isn't seen through.

the irony of being looked at the surface,
and never tried hard enough to find depth into.
it's comical, how we tend to give up—
half written, still typing, just deleted,
the unsent parts carrying all the weight
that eyes can't seem to convey or confess.

we'll just profess an undying nature of this bond
over stories and over chats.
it's messy, it's disguised.
turns out it's fake,
only for the time.

trend o' two:

"hold me close"
but i let go.
the grip slips,
my hands between yours.
our palms are sweaty,
i stare at you
as you look behind me,
and i know this is how it has turned out to be.

i'll look over your shoulder,
you'll give me a glance.
suddenly it's detachment fighting
the whatevers that kept us attached,
slowly you let go, and i can't seem to mend.

sweaty, slipping, holding, missing—
if there were only hands that existed,
would you convey through the grip,
or the phantom of drawing?
touch, absence, pull, drop—
is it a game,
a give and take,
or something worth yet despised?

trend o' three:

i sleep most nights alone,
often feeling you slip right behind me,
holding me close,
from isolating all i am,
all that i want,
and all i can be.
you leave behind breadcrumbs—
half spoken text,
misspelt jokes,
questions i ought to answer to.
words that are never meant to seek
so suddenly you fade,
then you return.
the messages are spammed,
the glances double up.

you look at me
and i know you're trouble.
from being sole to being bombed,
your love seems more like a time ticking machine,
and less of something i truly want.

i speak in fragments,
leaving behind unresolved tension.
and it doubles up,
accompanies you and i everywhere we go.

cut-off speakings,
you don't let me continue.
you need the attention,
i deny letting yours deter,
wanting it on me whole.

i hide the truth,
give away half-baked details,
keep what would help me feel understood.

for i know it doesn't stay.
heard from one ear,
you push it away,
keeping close whatever could help you.

might make you make me steer closer.
you ought to learn close,
if you wish to hear
what i don't speak of.

trend o' four:

halfway met conditions
and broken promises,
ones never spoken out loud,
but i'd kept them,
for they'd existed in the silence
and in the meanings.

turns out,
we're dolls hooked to puppet strings,
being controlled, our every whim.
the decision is theirs,
as the society directs and clears
whatever pathways you and i ought to take and wear.

it wasn't ever love,
a broken, chosen, inevitable belief
that simply had to come true.
this is a stage play.
we're dressed up,
the puppeteer is you, me, society, family—
or mere glitch of time
and faint suicidal memories?






every belief over up
hid a secret,
an unspoken acrostic,
reading it backwards,
ones that didn't match the tone.

it's rightly unsaid,
meant to say,
i said so.

i'll reframe it for the ones reading cosmic.
we orbit, they eclipse,
the satellites mispronounced,
the black hole is ridden in misspelled.

the coordinates almost always missed,
make it seem bigger than just reading—
a piece so intellectual, so pronounced,
it feels like leaving.

i'll anchor it down.
what's your love language?
is it pronounced?
convert them to the seven sins—
would you relate,
dare to point them out?

i've got the comfort book,
the dictionary of dreams,
a brief history of time,
and the tale of the grimms.

none of them hold anything close
to what i write.

there's five proven languages,
and i put forward them parallel to the seven sins—
warped, distorted, weaponized.
this isn't my doing,
but of the one who said
it ought to be humanized.

love o' sin
pride, envy, gluttony, greed, lust, sloth, and wrath
and so i take them on, put them to map.


i.
affirming what's meant
to make you feel better,
compliments dipped in honey,
serving echoes of how you didn't wish
to let it tether.

then why does it feel more like a chain
and less of a bind?
not so delicate either,
why do you force me out of this mind?

like there's pride in owning,
every you're mine,
isn't loving.



ii.
i'll do this for you
acts of service
seems to be fantasized.
but would you—
why it seems almost like masking, neglecting.

saying you care and you would,
i see you avoid and distance.
and when you can, so you do.
a way to not show up in emotions.

you seem vacated, distance,
almost like a sloth, speaking ******.



iii.
and perhaps giving and receiving—
thought of you, bought this.
is it the opposite?
bought you, thought of this.

equating all that i feel with possessions,
not having to describe,
oh i'm left with devotion.

the tokens feel like proofs,
but to whom?
the world doesn't care,
yet you demand i hold.

is it greed, pride combined even more?
where feelings could have spoken,
you exchanged presents as bespoken.



iv.
and then i skip to spending—
anchoring  time's quality, the clocks,
all of them stopping at the same pointed dots.

jealous of the hours
spent so further apart,
yet when it's together—
why does it feel forced,
suffocated, you and i?

we hold despite the minds,
as if it's envy,
from those who find it easy.

wanting every second of yours,
possession tying inescapable knots.



v.
and what of touch—
hold, grip, grasp, bite,
until it bleeds,
and suddenly it's a good night.

reducing it to hunger,
like gluttony—
but i know yet another.

there's connection, there's the threads,
the white ones turning red.
it has become consumption.

i need to breathe you in,
lust devours affection.


vi.
shall i add another two?
silence, existing without having to show,
or to prove—
not performing but you stay.

except it's withdrawal,
and the need of wanting it sole,
like the perfect doll.

greed, pride,and unmistakable wrath,
detachment has become a weapon,
punishment you give through absence.



vii.
attending to me over the notch,
consuming it all, in excess,
and watching it get lost.

the meanings, everything fast forwarding,
love-bombing—too much, too fast, too hollow.

living in the extremes,
gluttony—does it ever feel too narrow
of a path to take?


it ends like a flicker you feel
after a moment that has reached its ending,
closing into the final moments of the beginner’s feeling,

like after ending a book,
one where you realised just where it stood
and it hurt, it healed, it definitely stayed—

both as a memory,
and a haunting truth.


zooming back out on you,
a little cynical,
little fragile,
little clinical.

i'm merely dissecting the trends online,
you term it the seven sins of love.

a matter of hours multiplied with days.
what's promised to hold shouldn't disappear,
yet it leaves like a ghost,
of all the phantoms that promised to reappear.

so i get night terrors
of finding it incomplete.
and it hasn't gone along as i hoped.

where did it go?
honest is the best policy.
have i poured it in,
a little lethal?

would you go as far
as to call me illegal?

you make it seem so seasonal,
as if it's meant to come and go.

but affection has always been
one that ought to be pursued—
only if you find it enough to build a home.

and it gives into a lot,
a lot more messy.
they term it love,
it's just situations encompassing.

a cherished another,
your seemingly only forever.
so why give in to the trends,
when you could hum it over the radios,
find it in the stars,
and preach it to the gods,
making sacrifices
to make it and them, solely yours.

breaking:
flash mob,
house with no mirrors
and a broken door.

it has been proven time and along,
trends of affection as they are,
for the time being, a rotten core.

so the poet sits and smiles
as they follow and play—
make believe.
hoping they'd stop the disguise,
marking, copying
and simply agree.

pleading,
crying,
begging—
wanting to be heard.

watching, writhing,
burning in agony.
dreaming a nightmare,
hugging solemn innocence.
aching—
in despair, in desire.

once an angel of life—
now a demon of death in disguise.
her wings were torn, brutally,
and she couldn’t even scream one last time
before they threw her
off the landing.

nowhere to step, nowhere to stand—
barely able to sit,
and yet she ran.

kept running, far and farther still,
only to be pulled back
every time she thought she'd made it out.

they were always there.
watching.
waiting.
hoping.
to catch her,
to tear her—
hands on every part of her.

disgust piled with the blood in her mouth.
she scratched her skin,
tore herself apart—
knowing it’d hurt less
than being caught
by the counterparts.

and yet—
oh, look.
isn’t the moon pretty?

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

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

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

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

there's this guttural scream that ensnares me whole

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

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

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

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

and then i come crashing down again

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

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

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

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

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

this is what you get

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

but is it really necessary?
i promised to stay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

hey, what of me—

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

bare, a beast of all sorts,
the kind, unknown, unnamed,
desire, perhaps, or even the want.

peeling back layers upon layers,
haunting like venom dressed in velvet,
freaky, misdirected, and led upon.

devotion and lust drink from the same glass,
the champagne poured in by the hands that sculpted brass
into silver,
now mistaken for diamond shine
razor sharp, pricking at the slightest touch,
reaching all the way behind to grasp
the thin fiber of reality that separates.

distance barely existing,
trembling hands trying to pull away the curtains
that hide behind the mesh covering the eyes—

like silk over barbed wire,
perfume resembling the stench of blood,
metallic, almost glittering upon a caress.

curling upon the sheets like smoke in a fire grate,
in spirit, in being, in a soul tie so strong,
the red string pulled taut—

circling the fingers, going all the way up the arm,
slithering and coiling like a snake around the neck,
possession lacking in need.

war report disguised as a love note,
signed in lip stain.

warmth where the danger lives,
close to the flames that can destroy whole,
turned into ash, not mere blackened soot—

violet seize amidst grey sample.

rotten, wholly spoilt,
always a dance,
circling around, close—oh so close,
yet so far.

the truth about forever,
which exists in eternity,
for the while the self survives—

cherry-soaked bodies
living below the ransacked lair.
unspoken, the eyes connect,
few faded visions filled with anomalies,

and a step further up ahead.

grip loose, just way too loose,
accept the chances at running,
escaping right after the wisp of contact—

entangled fingers slipping as the light dims,
furthermore, the radio in the very corner
plays the same track from the first ever night—

with or without you,
don’t touch—don’t glance, don’t do.

torn between staying to take away the soul
or leave behind a heart wrapped in a ribbon.

the blackening veins, cinematic mugshot,
before ties around the wrists and eyes up at the skies—

give up—give up—breathe in, let be.

+92, look at me—do you hear it too?
the sound of bells, calling upon all the wanderers,
the bare ones, yet to hold any other.

too generic, exceptionally quiet,
concentric circles of the eyes,
tired of novocaine—

about all that you don’t see,
put the **** away.

solely a white, white lie,
blazing remembral speaks in starlight.

numbing ache around where the fingerprints remain,
tunnel vision, staring right at you,
at the way you move.

the last ticket, the last trip—
no turning back.

dripping cocoa down, round from the ceiling,
the mirrors speaking monstrosity,
reflections sharing a breath—

en route, in the midst of almost,
leaving behind all casualties,

end this trip—
while going down and low,
and back into the graves where we slipped out from.

i'm like when 2 am ferociousness met with 5 am alarm
smudged off the **** nuance off the corner of my lips in the dark

back home, drained, phone lighting up except it's not who i missed
make changes, perfect the scars — wipe out the traces that exist
feels like a music video, no cameras anywhere in sight
but i feel them watching, and with every reflex i hope to hide

multiple versions like blind spots behind the walls
were the masks always as potent as planned for them was?

surreal sometimes, watching it slip
i pull the cloak over, can't let it flip
for even a second, for it carries my whole identity
if they truly saw — saw truly for who i am
i don't think they'd even recognize me
faking pills, anti-calamides, the entirety of my existence
look at pictures on my walls, to lose grip over any remaining hesitance

it's in stages
when it happens
undoing my skin, zipping it down and stepping out to breathe
during the nights when it gets as real as it can
i look at my wardrobe, it's filled with masks
who should i be for the day? choosing is a dire task
one that i must achieve, tally all the previous repeats
and it's never the same — midway through, i have to tear myself apart to hold my coop

signs, watch for them
like ants leaving behind a trail to follow
dropping crumbs even tho all they wish to do is swallow
can't carry it all, no matter how much they can borrow
there's moments when it flickers
everything bare just for a second and the world seems to hold
as if waiting, hide it away — telling me — hide yourself whole
this is your chance, run, or settle down
wait, or burn yourself out
extinguishing a flame is impossible when you give the oxygen
give it all to aggravate
in the end, how dare u cry for all the mess it made?
can't kiss the flame, why get close to it in the first place?

there's rainbow fumes slipping through the blacks
the radio playing the album's sixth track
the board up says take right
but there's a figure standing right midway
vision turning bright red, it flashes white
x-rays me through, i can't see the eyes
but they tell me a tale i've long since held
been rotting in the prison for so long
even the wind seems to snap

your eyes speak
like butterflies held in watery imagery
like that one store open 24/7 for the hungry
resembling a payphone hanging off its cord
the voice echoing, "knock knock knock"
you loom in between the dimensions
almost floating, with dragonflies in your palms
stretched out towards me
there's a puddle of rainwater on the ground
a gas burner bright blue and white in the faded background
the screens flash with errors and figures
they walk past, like fishes swimming in an aquarium
the neons slip through the eyes
irises fading into a silvery crash
thousands of people drift by
barely a hundred holding hands
distance separates, time forgives
forgetting is like looking deep into the liminal
knowing there's no ending to this beginning

the streets aren't all too familiar
the buildings carry lives that speak
their windows tell stories — a dozen different endings
the sunshine falls a certain way
creating grey memories across the streets
do shadows overlap each other?
multiple questions — the answers to which lie in the mist

i could scan your eyes
find the me's that exist, see if u see me the way i do
check for pictures in your wallet, in your camera
in your feed, in your head — on your body, on you
but knowing i can't describe it all
describe them for you, i can't seem to stand tall
i'm afraid for you, seeing you walk out
is perhaps the best chance i can take
but a miserly one at that, it's a coward's mistake

should i count them out?
on fingers, i'd say just three
there's more — but facets to multiple sympathies
the major ones though, i call them the protectors

one exists — borderline deceitful
never aiming to hurt, keeping peace closed off
in a loophole, almost
living in boundaries
closed off, hiding in plain sight
having created doors, windows nailed shut
speaking in controversies
it preaches to protect the soul

there's another —
the publicised centre
lives empathetically
provides requests, hearing pleading
walking epiphanies
the bored, tired, sleepy version
meeting eye to eye
smile for smile
never faking, but never loosening the knots either
tie the loose ends just right

the remaining, the original
is a psychological art house
chaotic, musing, no doubt in the dark clouds
writing warfare of the minds
speaking soft, almost gullible
closest, truest, no boundaries like the previous
she lives as she breathes
grief filled in the soul
with a happy-to-go personality
i believe she's the one
except she hides beneath all that is dust
drifting through the mess she's become
it's calming, silent, wrecking havoc amidst
stench of sugar, candied crushes and humor
psychic tutorials, rafting rows of water
she lives in nightmares,
daydreams — almost as if there were none

i don't agree all at once,
having to visit the spiritual corners of this earth,
for they make me see a hope—
one that's been long since buried,
one that i dropped like a crushed piece of paper
aside, a random evening.

and yet, every time i find myself surrounded by the presence of his,
the almighty, the gods that these people cherish,
i look at them, feeling withdrawn—
yet somehow, they call me back in.
(almost like a pied-piper, am i being hypnotised or beckoned forthwith?)

every time i wander,
find myself surrounded by his devotees—
multiple gods, yet just one single feeling:
devotion.
i'd add the adjective 'blind' before it,
but i wouldn't want to disrespect—despite all that i carry.

they cherish him,
surrender at his feet,
beg him for forgiveness,
plead to him for their wishes,

almost like carrying hopes resembling bells ridden with stars,
twinkling, resounding the beats of their (often rotten, mostly pained) hearts.
there's a mix, i know, in their crowd—it's a mix of all those who walk the ground,
except they're equal in here.
perhaps that's one of the powers he carries,
visibly hidden in the plain old sight.
i'm sure he'd be a lot too merry,
seeing them murmur the same chantings,
despite all the differences, they still harry.

my mundane self, surrounded by the divine—
here's what i saw with the same eyes that once shined:
i wonder if the steps of the temple know
who walks upon,
who waits for his own.

i could capture it through the camera,
but to write it down would make me feel seen.
so here it is, kind of like a monologue—
i'll pray upon him, so you won't hate me.

alive with color, motion, scent, and sound—
isn't that the four senses working around?

the man behind the sweets,
who knows which ones vanish first,
which are opted the most—
and the ones people go for.

those who buy—
i, wondering, watching my own family enter,
are they getting the sweets to offer to their gods?
should i too try to please him, to make him listen to me?
is it bargaining—being too cheap,
or is it silently offering him a price to make him believe in my honesty?

there's a child—i'm sure he doesn't even understand.
he spins, in circles,
creating illusions of dreams and stars in bundles,
not knowing why he's happy,
only that he is.
i miss when my innocence had me still.

a father—hair tugged gently by tiny fingers,
trying to steer him through the crowd.
of course, he knows better,
but he'll listen to his son
and his own memories of being carried around.

the same way—
a mother who lifts her child,
the one who carries the world within himself.
he's her world, yet to know his own disguise.

a priest, giving into the glowing screen
while sitting in front of the one he preaches day and night.
i'm sure that's considered minimal,
considering the world out there is built up
of more such people, giving into the illusions
of what the ones around are to offer.
i wonder if they realize the grave truth in its simplicity:
their bodies, which their souls inherit,
are also rented as temporary.

there's many more
that surround—children, aged, middle ones—all of them around.
to zoom out and narrate from their perspective—
i wonder if i seem to be fake?

i look at the feet of people,
showing ways they've walked,
ways they've lived,
and ways they've continued to trot
to find their peace in this world.

as they climb up the steps, in crowds,
holding hands and not missing anything out,
i see it in their eyes.
as they dream, almost child-like,
their hope symbolizes their life.

and to put it in the entirety towards one single entity—
the one who sits at the top,
is flowered, crowned, gifted upon.
i look at him in the eye,
and something about the moment makes me smile.

"alright," i whisper, as if i'm talking to a friend.
"i'll wish this once, once again."

and i ask for something simple, something that i've needed,
something i'm sure he'd understand and agree
and listen to with an intent:

"keep my hope alive,
to you, and to the life alongside.
and i'll return again and again,
be one of the ones surrounding.
i'll pray and hope to you again."

and that's how i leave—
calmer self, lighter chest,
a bit better than before,
maybe with a newly found hope.

i turn around one last time,
knowing i'll be back before long,
and i smile.

instead of waving, i touch the steps
that have carried thousands, including my own.
"i'm leaving for now, but i'll return—
right when i need to be with you, not just by myself."

this was all from the eyes of a hopeful ordinary.
i walk among you. i am one of you.
the lord does reside within me.

i think
this is perhaps the first time
i came and picked up my laptop,
sat in front of the blank screen,
with the pointer blinking back at me—
and i realized i had so much to write.

about how the world was being unfair,
of how i was being lied to,
of how i was all by myself all again—
and that's what they wanted:
to isolate me after attachment.

and i don't know,
it didn't hurt the way it used to.
i relapsed, kinda—
but i realized i'd healed much more.
and even though it's surprising,
i just don't know how to pen it down.

i was watching the recent season of ginny and georgia,
and i found quotes and expressions and scenes that i related to—
like *******, like poetry is supposed to be form of self-expressing.
but i never knew how to do it in the first place.

and i've gotten better, i know—
but i lie on my bed,
and something's just so poetic about lying in the dark
with posters on my walls,
with pictures telling me to not give up,
to write, to be creative—
and i do all these things just to stop thinking at all.

like, i have my hair open
and it's the second day since i washed them.
i'd changed the day schedule—
it seems kinda nice, like not a repetition for once.
and my mum's showering,
i'm in my room,
the air conditioning is on—
the heat outside is unbearable.

i received a text from a random person asking for my socials,
and i'm perhaps the first in this generation
to not use a social.

i bathed my bunny today,
she's kinda angry at the fact—
but i know she'll round that. she always does.
she just doesn't like water,
but she needs it.

like i don't like to live and be surrounded
by people who don't want me,
but i have to fake it.

that's kinda simple.
but it's hard to accept—
like the brutal kinda truths that seem to reflect my own insides
and i just have to let them.

and every time i look into the mirror,
i imagine who i can be.
but to be that person,
to be the me in the mirror—
it's just— i don't have a way yet laid out in front of me.

i've got no prompts today—
perhaps i'll ask for some, look around and always return
to write back in here.
but sometimes i wanna write just nothing at all.

like write it out,
but it's about nothing—
just things that are so normal
that they don't even seem to matter.

you won't see someone writing about breathing
until they know the lack of it during a panic attack.
you won't see someone writing about a heartbreak
unless they've been through that.

and they could write from the experiences of others—
but first, you have to experience.

and i don't know,
i'm perhaps getting somewhere—
but that isn't even necessary, at all?
right?
like, i can exist,
and i don't have to make a big point out of it— all times.

i can be breathing,
be listening,
be wanting something but not knowing what i want exactly.
and i could be just in the zone of comfort
without having any comfort at all.

but it's just— hard to define, to put in words.

i had no thoughts when i came here,
but right now i type,
and i watch myself type,
and i see the words coming to life
and i want to keep going on and on and on and on
until the cycle just never stops
and i can keep on speaking and speaking
and somehow get it all out—
all that i've felt, or all that i keep feeling.

and i could write my past down
but i don't have any memory unless it's triggered—
i'm just— like a total black space
with no stars either.

and i'm running out of metaphors
and i'm afraid that i won't have this writing skill of mine.
that's kinda one of the fears.

the second is to show people i truly hear—
and see, and watch as they go ahead
and do the things that will have me lost—
far, far away from them.

and i wonder if they even see then—
that i can be the one they need,
but to be someone that i need,
myself, with me—

i just read a quote that said
"life's easier if you have even just one good friend,"
and i have had— one of those, always and now and then—
but i kinda seem to always lose it all.

and that's alright,
because somehow, you find a way—
but i can't still go to these good friends of mine,
and talk to them—

another thought—
if you can't find a reason to be,
become the reason yourself.

just got a random thought that could be a big quote
and now i'm being gaslighted—
is this thought my own
or did my brain pick it up from somewhere
and threw it in the open for more?

poems don't always have to have an ending—
well, they do.
but that's what i tell myself
when i can't find an ending suitable enough
to fit in the already written words.

and then i realize,
the infamous line from the series i'm currently watching:

"listen or don't, i don't care—
that's life right?
things don't always have happy endings.
or even endings.
it's not fair like that.
we're just left hanging
and we don't know what's gonna happen.
we don't even know what really did happen.
so all we can do is decide to just not care."

"i think you do care.
when you wrote that poem, you wanted an ending.
you crave resolution.
you want things to make sense.
and sometimes they don't.
and that frustrated you,
so you frustrated us, the listeners.
you pushed us away.
oh and that's the name of the poem by the way,
'ending'."

and my question for you tonight
what are you most scared of
in the pale moonlight
when you're by yourself
and you imagine a life where there isn’t any fear
what do you wish you wouldn’t have to bear?

i’ll start, i guess—
i’m scared of loud noises
people screaming
put me in direct contact
and i’ll lose all my feelings

i’m scared of broken ceramics
violence, hitting, cursing, breaking
i remember tea stains on the walls
pieces of a once whole, beautiful cup
strewn about, broken everywhere

i’m scared of the heights
only on days when i feel just too light
that i might just let go
what if i fall and what if there’s nothing that’ll hold me back
or a ledge to hold on

i’m scared of the compact
too many monsters all at once
perhaps i’ll crack
a pressure, eyes upon me
i could disguise, pretend
but i hate all that i see

i’m scared of losing all this kind
of losing who i am
and this battle in my mind
going cross-eyed even as i write
i’m scared of failing, falling,
not being able to swim back up
simply drowning

i’m scared of loving too much
perhaps enough and never being loved back
and it could be a lie or an irony
but i’m scared of nursing a broken heart
or breaking one myself
for i wouldn’t want it
wouldn’t want to see the mess
but it happens, happens way too much
and i have to play pretend

i’m scared of speaking
of what if you see the hidden meanings
of what if you just don’t— and ignore me
what if i speak, and there’s nobody to listen
and even if they do listen, what if i burden

i’m scared of being lost
in the depths, in the lows,
not being able to express does that to you the most
and i fear losing
losing all that i’ve built
every step i’ve taken
every memory i’m sewn in
all the moments out of time i’ve milked
to the very last drop
feelings i’ve penned down, every last thought

i’m scared of— not being enough
perhaps i am not
but even so— i deserve to exist
exist without a doubt or second thoughts
and i shall revoke anyone’s rights
don’t make me feel like it might
be better if i ceased to exist
i fear it and i fear what if a day comes
when i can’t write, listen, see or speak

and what if i lose
lose you, and what if i get punished
for things i haven’t even done but simply being blamed for
and what if you see me with the eyes that carry despise
hatred perhaps, i fear what if a day comes
and i just don’t see you anywhere or here, in fact

i’m scared of a lot more
of being left behind
overlooked, perhaps thrown to the side
never healing from things i can’t even speak of
and perhaps staying the same
missing out, accidentally meeting upon accidents
that could become part of the worst nightmares or
failing, falling on dreams and been a betrayed chore

the list goes on
but i can’t speak it out loud
or answer it when i ask you all about
what are you scared of?
so i just say spiders, and move on.

i have this routine
whenever i ought to go out
the others get back to their homes
looking forward to relax
i go back to my own pit of sadness
a long, old friend
who waits with open arms, no pretense

it's like all the smiling i did just drains
and i stare at the hollow remains
a version of me that danced in light
buried now in soothing night

do i ever stop hating this self?
or is it a cycle, a slow-burning melt?

someone looked the wrong way maybe
or a phrase pierced through like it could slay me
i'm called dramatic
i'm told i feel too much
as if emotion's a crime
or a fragile crutch

is it too wrong to feel everything?
when nothing inside has clarity, only sting

maybe it's just me
wanting to be seen
beyond the mask
beneath the sheen
only if they read what i truly write
not skim the glitter
but sit with the fight

and no, i don’t have the charm or grace
i carry this weight in every space
like a broken doll
chipped and mute
hah—dolls, so fake
so absolute

porcelain skin, perfection’s lie
i’m the crack in that flawless sky

what do i fill this bottomless pit with?
when it breathes, when it lives, when it rips

swallowing joy before i even begin
and i’m so scared of ******* it up again
can’t even try to say it out loud
just too sad to cry
too lost in the crowd

will you please—hold me now?

it's hard to imagine someone could ever love me
behind what all i hide
and all that i wear
with all my insecurities
and everything i fear

hard to think that they'd see me
not as men usually do
but as a lover
with eyes as gentle as a father
and a faith unlike my mother
a lending hand like an older sibling
the caress of a grandparent—steady, forgiving

hard to imagine why anyone would ever love me
behind all the smiling i do
that they'd see how i cry the same nights too

and every time i look in the mirror
how i wish to skin me alive
how i listen to the same music
that makes me cry
how i sit in the dark with a straight face
train-crying in thought
'cause to do it out loud would disgrace

and how i press my hands over my chest
in a knot
hoping to find it was a hug
one i wouldn’t have to return
arms of someone who didn’t wish to heal me
just let me be
let me soak in all that’s wrong
and build me up again
not strong—just... me

someone who’d accept the exception i was and am
mostly broken, somehow functioning
reaching the ****** of feeling every single day
only to break down back again—no delay

someone who wouldn’t listen to what they think of me
would they have their own opinion, or just agree?

not judge me the way the jury around has done
forever and ever, verdicts spun
never has someone willed to seek behind the veil
and i don’t hide a lot
just the ugly truth of how i can be

will someone look at me
beyond the looks and their needs
beyond every reason why people usually look at me?
will someone... find me?

could i be someone's sunshine?
the one who makes their day a bit brighter
perhaps kind in a way—
i could help someone just by lending a hand
or bring down bridges
for them to cross the rivers?

the kinda sun that dries up the rain water
that's been stagnant in someone's life for years
or even better—wipe out the rain and the storm
and bring out a brighter day to their tomorrow?

could i be the sunshine—
or am i one?
'cause i've been trying so hard
then why do i get called out
as a pathological people pleaser?

i don't need no sunshine-cross-x-x-trope
but i wouldn't mind being the sun
in the life of the people i love
take away their clouds
bring them some fun

and if i could bring a smile to their face
have them bloom
like sunflowers do to sun's gaze
maybe—just maybe—my work in this life will be done.

the repetitive tasks are comfortingly funny
i'd hate eating the same meal for years
and yet
mixed up with others over days
somehow it's still years of the same taste

nothing really seems that repetitive
not like my sleeping schedule
all messed and stitched the same
or my weekdays in classes—
same buildings
same faces
same mindless chase

or even the harry potter movies
god, i’ve watched them on loop
again and again
like a hug from childhood

not to forget the books i've read
and the same kind of words
i've poured into notebooks and diaries
bleeding ink of similar sadness
with slightly different dates

i believe this repetitive life
might be the reason
the same old woes
hurt the same way
every time they boil over
the brink of my existence

and considering i've never broken out of this loop
not really
never run far enough
to feel new air

will i ever break out of the hollows
these same feelings and familiar situations
have brought me to—again and again?

beauty is in the eye of the beholder
but what if the one to envision it is blind?
i could approach you with a clean slate
i always do—writing things on a white screen—
except the older the ink, the harder for it to be removed.
visions of you in my head—just not anyone could write over.
and if they try—if i hear things again and again—every time,
it's written over and over and over
until i do not have any clean slate for you, any longer.


actions so cheap, the best of ink fails to meet my expectations.
perhaps there are too many,
but what do i do
when you tend to perform in disguise
every time you see someone come around?

i slip in the lows of being unhinged almost,
the gates of emotional purgatory open to welcome me aboard.
it's tiring—i'm drained.
speaking it in metaphor, trying to paint over.
it brings me to wonder:
just how long do i play pretend?

been wrung dry of trust,
perspective from the third person
who stands in the rubble of ghosted flirtations,
half-friendships built on the foundation of lies.
expected nothing,
but the hope still flows—
straight to my river of misery,
now reeking shades of disappointment.
got lesser and lesser,
and now it's barely there.

this is my final letter,
a sigh of resignation—
hopefully the scientific dissection of this feeling that i entertain:
of the almosts,
weird hope-hangovers,
and all the games
that weren't even mine to begin with.

to name it is difficult—
perhaps it's the hope fatigue,
the burn of being ghosted,
or a nostalgia born from detached attachment.
i mourn for things that weren't real.
hungover from fake bonds,
relying on remnants of connections
that echoed in fallouts.

i asked ai—what do i name this feeling?
in my own words, it replied:
choose your favourite color and give it to this burnout.

grey—
in the middle of extremes,
where hope lay on one end,
ache at the other.
the rope stretched thin.
my being glitches—
a breath, every failed text,
trying to match up the vibe.
i feel like i've fallen in between the lines.
i see it, hiding in plain sight,
watching people perform me wrong.
lowest of expectations, ridden lower and low.

fake affection tastes like sour frosting
on a cake that's been left uncovered in the fridge
for way too long.
the outside’s rough, dry—
nevertheless, i take a bite.

there's eerie silence
as i sit at the edge of the windowsill.
numbness lingers.
i pull at the strings.
raw evenings,
i tend to wonder—
write notes, only to surrender.

kindness—they tally manipulation.
flirting, i take as a weapon.
come headfirst—i'm no longer wary.
having given up,
you just add to my list
of why i shouldn't let people carry
me,
or the weight of what i've become.

i don't despise it.
rather, it's a maturity
i ought to carry to a life—
unless i find someone to share this feeling with.

do you feel,
having already expected close to none,
but being handed even lesser—
gift-wrapped in guilt almost—
just please accept it?
expect it the least,
find it dealt in a heist.

even apathy tends to feel violated
when you drag it back to the beginning.
there ought to be a specific hell
for those who tend to exist
and make promises
like they aren't bartering their own.
calling me honest—
with a mouth that lies.
an ache with no name,
a feeling with no gain.

i been known,
been breathing in the sighs—feelings forlorn.
lover girl by laufey plays on my phone,
disappointment of having lost myself
to beliefs that held me strong.

believe,
trust,
exist,
let go.

four friends turned strangers
sitting on the edges of an x.
the centre, i settle upon,
asking what do i name this feeling
that's been born?

how hard is it
to not wear a mask
and change it every time you bask
in a different one’s setting?
a rare emotional creature,
i tend to sit in the foreign setting.

i do not recognize myself.
holding onto things that weren't even present—
this reads like a séance.
funerals held for feelings that needed strengthening,
got tampered with instead,
burnt down to the very bit.

excuse me as i scream in silence.
look at you, with eyes speaking imagery.
build a connection,
hold the other edge of the phone connected to this wire—
one that wouldn't carry any signals.
but i hope you'll still hear
the music that plays this side—
all the unspoken
that i let bleed through my hide.

masks are unrequired.

i've got an inkling—
you do not understand.
and i do not put it in words.
this, like a myth—uncanny and impossible to uncover.

unless i've got a name to put to this emotion,
i shall drain myself of all words, irrespective—
if it's meant with relating,
or with mirth.

you can only add to my reasons
of why it isn't ever worth.

a book titled the comfort book
carries silver-tongued truths disguised as preachings offering some peace.
turns out reading what's already known
is like seeing the result on paper—
having exclaimed, i won't believe unless it's shown.

can i slip in, as a matter of fact,
the moon is suing me for emotional damage
and all the pressure i've brought upon it, forthwith, with immediate effect?

she left a letter this morning while leaving
to hide in her contrary's presence—
a cease and desist nailed to the door of my self.
she claimed i'd stared too long,
longingly enough she’d started to feel bare,
and seen me stark naked as i whispered my dire lies to the night air.
she felt used. perhaps i committed a crime.
so i admitted, and asked for apologies.

except i was sent a summon,
to present myself and the plead-not-guilty note.
the stars—she put as the jury,
the night sky her lawyer,
the sun as the judge—he held fury.

i presented myself, humor disguising my truth,
but when they brought the memories to the witness box,
i knew i was done for—eloquently misjudged and overlooked.

had to take an oath,
but they lied under it even.
promised nothing was wrong.
i saw right through their plotting.

i aimed for the time reversing,
pleading guilty, admitting innocence.
my shadow whispered secrets i haven't lived yet—
and they brought her to cross-examine:
no one else but my imaginary friend.

she was mad.
mad for being forgotten and left.

so i did the next best thing:
tore my skin, let her scavenge through the inside.
she felt for the way my veins pulsed,
and admitted i was right.
speaking the truth, your honor,
i smiled at the moon,
but felt guilty for not seeing it sooner.

the universe had glitched—
whenever i cried, it glitched,
sent down a star to wipe my eyes dry.
in doing so, the stars suffered,
and the moon, without her supporters, lost her glimmer.
she lost her friends, as i lost my own.
and no, she wasn’t angry—
just a bit tensed, for she'd seen what happened to my hope.

the lawsuit resulted in me being freed.
i stood up, walked over, and gave her a tight hug—
the trial of chaos, and of giving life to non-existent hope.

she handed me the book of comfort,
written in white on a black page.
it glistened.
the often misplaced truths hide in the bright.
so accept them as you may—
they could be sour, bitter, expired to taste,
but breathing in the venom is one way to make sure
you don’t repeat the same mistakes.

and so this was my tale,
held in the celestial court.
i missed everything—except that i was forlorn, not too long ago.
i still sit at nights and stare at her,
but this time, she lends her own shoulder.
the stars scribble it down:
surrealism meets emotional rundown.

ominous as though it might seem,
this fits like a verdict-stamped
"not guilty" in my very being.

i see a mass standing in front of the mirror—
a human, perhaps.
i can't call her a girl.
she doesn't have the attributes—
enough to be called all that.

it's a reflection,
undeterred,
simply wretched.

there are marks on the mirror—
proof it hasn't been cleaned.
i wonder if they're on my body too.
i hope the glass has enough cracks
to hide and tell
how it feels every time
i discover the same wrecked look
staring back.

the skin is loose
around a few different hooks,
feels like it's sagging—
i pull so hard,
hoping i'll tear through.

i feel nothing but pain
for her,
hidden beneath all that disgust—
the turmoil i'll put her in,
the self-hatred.

and to think—
she’s just become
a black mass
of everything and nothing.

a loathsome, foolish little being
that can’t fit,
can’t talk,
can’t sit.

she’s not the ideal.
and sometimes i think
her existence
isn’t for the world even—

she’s just a scandal.

millions of red threads
and yet the one that holds significance
tied around the little finger,
hooking me to you.
the red string theory—
fragile, probably a lie,
but doesn't it make you cherry?
 
glitter on my hands,
i'm no angel but i leave behind what i couldn't mend.
it sparkles, everywhere i hold you close—
skin placid, hissing almost under touch.
throw glances, lips curving to a smile,
you're enchanting, flickering alive.
 
what can i help with?
give away all i breathe,
i'll hand over all my pills,
stop injecting myself with words i can't speak,
pause inflicting pain upon scars that you won't ever seek.
 
dim lightning, darkened horizons,
drugged-up eyes, seeing through the glimmer.
my vision fades every time the needle pierces—
through my skin, i feel it pulsing,
leaving behind the sensation that slowly dulls away everything.
heaven and back, while rotting on the same couch,
i breathe in the smoke, ashes turning grey.
my hair sticks to my skin as i sweat through the blaze.
 
rehab never taught me how to exist.
being so undone, the remedy is sick.
prescriptions changing,
seldom any constants.
syringes filled with all that remains far from legal—
they call them drugs, is love any far behind in evil?
 
the kind of touch that leaves traces once it's gone,
hallucinations scripting out desires and thoughts and scenes that couldn't become.
withdrawal makes me crawl, no cure that could stop this spiral.
once the highs have been lived through,
the crash arrives as an aching breakthrough.
 
i cry in gemstones that rest in the corners of my eyes—
sitting, waiting, you can't detach them.
they strain towards permanence every time i sigh.
 
the back of the cab is filled with the blazing neons,
and it drifts through the street laced in LEDs and glistening homes.
i've got a pink heart vision,
the glasses leaving me to see stars on every face that carries
even the slightest seed of doubt—
anxiety etched to the masses,
they still envision.
 
i despise you've brought me back to this feeling—
the one i ran from, escaped, returned only to attach.
got me doing, fawning, sniffing white powder turning black.
 
my phone screen blips, lightning up,
the name repeating as i listen to the night come alive.
i'm too high, way too high to reply.
i tell you i was sleeping,
forgive me for my disguise.
 
cheap—cheap cheap.
i overdosed the wrong kind.
 
i look down at the bill,
see the name that wasn't meant to stay in the will.
the wrong wrong wrong addiction.
you failed me, cursed me, broke me—
it's my turn to accept this affliction.
 
shouldn't have—should have.
don't regret—all i do is regret.
ended, stopped, relapsed—now it's all red.
the stick in white in between my fingers,
lit at the end, vapour rising to the flimsy night air.
i sit on the sidewalk, watch the vehicles pass—
too dazed to care.

i'll stop existing, leaving no traces.
this shirt doing much less to stop the cold as it caresses my skin,
blankets the wounds, takes away all that i fear.
i shall move, get up, throw away the burnt-out ****,
walk away, the bottoms of my converses heading down the road to nowhere.
 
you won't even bother to map out the path.
i just know,
the cruelty and the false lies have long since encompassed you whole.
see what i am,
but you are way beyond my control.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

i wonder if the matchstick ever regretted its purpose.

there's pieces of me.
well, i'd like for them to be.
like with a big butcher's knife,
i'd carve myself out like a cake
and hand it over in plates
to all the comers
in the party of my life.

i think i'd have a sour frosting,
a bad bread—perhaps even a bad smell.
i don't think i'd be of good taste,
of any good matter,
for that same sake.

a couple long, repeated bad nights of sleep,
ugliness etched in my skin
like sprinkles on the dark frosting.

what flavor would i be, even?
with all this blood and muscle,
i'd dissect my brain in half,
perhaps find the anti-matter.

i hope by the time i'm carving my heart,
it gets to be in the mouths
of all those who tore it apart.

my bones can be handed over
to whoever tried to reside by them,
in there—
when they couldn’t find places,
or simply chose to stick to the rear.

i could be bitter,
i’d admit.
it leaves me to wonder:
perhaps if i were a dish served cold,
would their hands pause?
washed in guilt
as they chew away at me—
would they realize
i taste exactly as they made me?

the irony of the hands that cooked,
the hands that tasted,
the hands that brought me up
and down
to my very ruin.

if i were to leave myself on the table,
sliced and silent—
would they pray before digging in?

maybe i’m not made of cake.
maybe i’m spoiled rot,
sugarcoated with whipping cream,
one that turned black—
the kind of dark your eyes
never really adjust to.

the mask over decay.
i’m still palatable, i believe.

they never asked
what it cost to be served.
but then, it was my choice—
in the end, at least.

they needed the softest parts.
i offered them,
sweetest pain and all.
to get some, you have to lose some.
lose yourself—
find me.

never the full truth,
just fragments i promise
will indeed satiate your gut.

i wonder if they’d spit me out
if i finally stopped the seasoning.
would they ever let a second glance
go my way—
on me, on the plate?

what’s the etiquette for eating?
accept what is served.
and what for eating someone alive?
do you pretend to care—
pray, ****, or just cut it up?

they stitched poetry into my skin.
had me sewing my wounds—
the antiseptic: my own blood.
only to tear me apart
just to get a read.
a glance
at their own work.

and then they wondered
why i never held it together.

my ribs have poison—
the kind i breathed in,
never out.
second to oxygen,
to the air they stole.
air meant for me,
and me whole.

enter if you must—
through my eyes,
down the pipe to my lungs,
and perhaps my heart.
there’s no angels.
no glow.
no butterflies.

i peeled my skin
as if i were stripping bark from old wood—
but who could’ve accepted
the still-rough edges?
no matter how much smoothing i tried to do.

they drank from my brain
like it was grape wine.
told me i was divine,
worthy of memory,
of residence.

and every single time i found myself
in a heart—
it locked me up,
bared me apart.

i carved my way out
with a rusted hand,
my body on the line—
and to prove i had one,
what all did i not do?
was it ever enough?

if i were a mausoleum—
would they leave flowers,
or taste the stench hidden
behind the sweet of my grave?

my veins: strings,
messy and burning
with the desire
to ache and spill out
everything they carry.

my teeth: chewing on bits of my own chest,
hollowed out,
worms crawling within.

this self—
a cage.
a cage of muscle and bone.
enlightened, maybe.
reached the world beyond,
if that’s what they call it.

madness personified.
grotesque, but tender.

all these bruises and wounds—
a decay so glittery
i perform it.

one horrifying nightmare,
mentality gruesome,
pain bespectacled.

they romanticized
every time i bled—
on the steps,
on the hands
that never cared
for the pretty red.

cynical,
pathetic little monsters.
each one shapeshifting
into others.

selective consumption,
their art form.
watch my performative sweetness,
and fake the fake
out of them all.

someone once asked me
if i were to describe how my heart looked
in words and not through science.
it left me wondering for ages,
finding the right words—
i realized metaphors worked,
kinda like being tangled in lines,
woven outta feelings i can't describe.

my heart is perhaps a lonely, lonely setting
in a space—void of any lighting.
there's glitter on it though,
and whenever it gets a signal of the memory,
cursed even if it was,
it glows like a broken lamp
flickering to light on an empty road,
like an old cd player stuck on the same song—
or more like, stuck on the default,
going in a loop.

the member of the family
stuck in a guest room.
the little kid, trying to sleep—
waiting for a lullaby or a nighttime story.

a black hole, absorbing its own self,
it's been far too alone, on its own.
a long, long night, waiting for a sunrise—
something the world despised, but not anymore.

a dead eulogy with rhyming words.
a piece of broken ceramic, held up by mud.
pieces of fabric cinched together
with needles and stitches,
pinned across words that once shattered—
on a corkboard, decorated in a fancy manner.

a building that collapsed once
during a 5.5 magnitude earthquake—
rebuilt, but never been the same since.

the perfect interpretation is hard to find.
my heart is like a glass toy
in the hands of a child,
a burnt forest that symbolizes ashes and rebirth,
an old woman close to taking her last breath,
yet smiling to the world.

a home to those who didn't belong,
race of the misfits, who all won.

it's just an *****,
something i need to pump blood and to survive—
and yet it feels like an ironical mess of words,
philosophical in its own existence.

i love this heart of mine.

quite a few severe misconceptions
hey! seriously, that's how you can summarize my life for me!
beyond the glitter, the actual bones of the beast
ugly, somehow disgusting, but they make me up, me.

i sometimes wonder, if i could be poetry
perhaps? – actually we'll scratch that.
i will be overlooked, as this usually is.
will you still write me?

no, i don't want you to write to me
or write on me – though i wouldn't mind
if i could carry it everywhere i'm ought to be.
but still –
write me. write about me.
all that i am, all that i could ever be.

there's multiple, many – oh god, a vast multitude
that i wish to talk about to any.
literally, whoever bothers to listen – and to see.
well, mainly to see, to not go over just once
and simply forget me.

i feel like – i might be a pathological liar
and a people pleaser.
but is it too wrong? wanting to be seen?
and not just as a trophy you can bag anytime,
or a passing moment, when life has you bored in its rhyme,
or even worse – someone just for the pleasure.

will you notice me?
heed to my voice and all that resides within me?
you know what. i think this was enough of 'me'.

the "almost" kind of hurts, you know.
it's always been just that.
at least for me, that's where my clock stops.
i hear about how you like me,
hear about how you want to try it out on me –
why is it always, "the almost of us"
with you & i and i & them?
why does it always have to end?
(even before it has began)

perhaps i indeed am that one tale,
kind of like the midnight rain.
they say they do cherish my existence –
but they never stay up, at least in most cases,
or bother to listen.

i can't focus, or give you my all –
i know that's a flaw at my side.
one that i wish i didn't have to follow like a rule,
settled in the hymns of my body and my life.

this, to the "almost of us" –
why do you always just... give up?
leaving me halfway,
like i'm not even worth the wait.
never did you want to know, maybe,
what really lies at the end of this race.
(will you regret, if i were to say, there weren't a lot of opponents for you to go against, per se?)

being wanted is what i've required –
to be asked for, to be known,
to be understood, not to be shown.
i hear about it in the books
and in the movies and different tales of the hues
of others’ vastly nerving stories –

how when someone likes you,
it lights up this part of you
that almost resembles the feeling of being desired – finally!

contrast is jarring though.
i see you, realize – wow, you see me too?
and yet almost always –
almost wanted, almost pursued, almost something.
and then a beautifully cherished, salty little nothing.

am i really not enough?
or did i do something wrong?
i did pay heed to your existence
even though i might have missed my own.

the unspoken loss –
one that i didn't require.

you know it hollowed me out a bit.
oh, who am i kidding –
it took all of me from me.
maybe you too liked the idea of me,
and not who’s real.
i know it is kinda messy.
at least that's how it's always been with me.

i have always had a habit
to press on those tiny little bruises –
so soft in nature, hurt a bit.
just always the right way, they hit.

i didn't even ask for you or them.
and yet –
the way you fumbled
and had me finding the sweet little nothings.

sigh, i guess i'll just admit
i want to be chosen.
there. the truth out for the world to see.
(i'll hide it to my death and never let you close to me)

i wish you'd pursued me with intention –
and not always the almost trying
only to give up before the trying even came close.
it left me crying, you know.

it's always – the spark that they leave.
never enough to light up a fire.
and then they find flaws within me.
why am i attacked, i wonder?

all i wanted was some real connection.
what of it when i scream
for all those who hear –
you have no right to drop bread crumbs
and leave me to clean them up.
i won't, as i never have.
but please, just once – notice me.
and don't treat me like an ant
like you did to others whom you've had.

everything's worth trying,
one way or the other.
everything's got a fruit waiting –
if you're willing to not just give up.

i ain't just shallow –
feel too deep.
trust me, this isn't something i've wanted.
yet you leave me with the same question,
as they always do –
why am i the one hurting,
when i didn't even ask for anything, or specifically you?

sometimes i'm afraid –
what if i'm being the particular "pick me"?
but i promise to never show vulnerabilities,
even though i speak a lot.

you might call me arrogant,
but all i've done is exist
and ask for something in return –
to cover all that i am,
all behind the makeup on the bruises of my existence.

too much, too cold, too confusing –
i ain't any of those.
but i wonder if i'm worth choosing.

some say i'm that poem
someone doesn't know they remembered
and made memories with until it's too late.

is it too petty of me
to give you such chances and options
again and again?

what's hard to digest though –
is here, the truth written in the blood of my pain,
and all the cuts that you've given me to aid.

they will forever look at me in a particular way –
and half of them who heed to me,
it'll be because they require the things
they need from the kind of me.

never has anyone asked me the questions
i wanted them to ask –
like things that shaped me,
or the ones i liked truly.

the ones i'd love, to be honest,
if it's with someone who stays.
i'd want to be with them throughout
and share those little eye contacts and loving stares.

i need depth.
want to be asked, not just seen.
maybe again, i'm asking for too much.
please forgive me.

i wore the sun for you –
yet you chose the rain.
the same rain i used to be,
but it was one during the day
and not the midnights like i usually erupted.

too much for you to handle.
i wish you'd accepted.
needed no spotlight – just some care.
someone to notice, someone to lend a shoulder.

yet left behind, almost always.
but what can i even say
when it's always been – "the almost of us."

i'll withdraw in silence,
just to be looked at the same way as any other.

might be complex, chaotic – miserly at times,
what if you indeed realize
i'm just barely anything, not even like any other?

is there any place anywhere
where i can fit –
where i belong the most?
perhaps not, perhaps the answer's a never
but i wish you'd loved and chosen me – at least once
just so for once i could feel something
other than just always being the ghost.

dearly beloved,
we are gathered here today
to celebrate the memorial
of those who we were
at one point in time,
those we became
as the world continued to chime,
and those we shall be
when the clocks stop ticking—
like the tune of that one track
in your head
that just doesn't seem to stop hitting.

we are settled here today
to welcome the peace we've desired,
the love we've forgotten,
and the happy akin to the sunshine
on flowers surrounding our graves.

we will succumb to the fire and air
as we're provided with,
based on our actions and tribulations,
we're pardoned with.

tangle of bones in the dust,
holding engravings
of those who marked each other—
the soulmates and the friends alike.
none can ever witness it,
but in the pale moonlight.

"and i shall stay with you,
holding hands, keeping close,
when the angels in front of us
sing a rhyme
that presents before us
the days we barely awaited
all this time.

since we met,
knowing we were to separate,
i shall hold you every time,
in each moment,
even if it is to berate.

no matter if it's the end—
if that's what it means
to live by, 'till death do us part'.
i shall do it again and again,
this destiny or the afterlife,
reckoning in all its might,
will do it again,
with all my heart,
even if you were to leave me & depart."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and then it dies.

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

that’s what it’s for.

like humans as well.

pronouncing beauty, eloquism i've dealt with,
a lit-up candle resembling a snowflake
in the middle of weary summer—
hearth, solitude, and soulmates

have particular habits,
like one i seldom right now:
never get my hair blow-dried
after having cut them down,
knowing i wouldn't go to those lengths again,
or see the styled version—
that's as real as your plains.

wouldn't be there the next day, would they,
when i wake up, a messy bedhead,
stars on my skin, nightmares stained in purpose—
guesses on that somewhere along the ride,
i accepted the chaotic messy half curls
and half waves of my dusted heathery heathens.

learn my language if you must:
private with a public intensity,
burning in paradoxes and flameproof identities.

there's multiple facets of how you live—
decisions, situations, ironies, as you will,
weaponize descent, set trademarked positions.

loathsome evil little creatures,
annoying in proof,
existing by mere chance—
i despise them all through.
but oh, do they deserve love?
perhaps, maybe they do—
from those who speak their words
and listen to them swoon.

deities settled atop the mountain of lies,
dancing in between the lines.
truth is a factor—
those eyes, they lie:
iridescent, accompanied with desires,
breathing vacuum, eating dust,
speaking their shares even as they shy.

spider webs curling upon oneself,
eight-legged creatures grinning at the fresh catch.
fakers faked their own fake selves,
hid secrets of the sacred mess in their chests.

i live for i.
give up, for you shall—
i've some offers to make.
but before, offering some tea—

oh, on the side,
would you like some scones dipped in earth, perhaps?

i drew a few hearts on my bedding
when it was bare without any sheets
perhaps i shouldn't have — it's bad manners,
what you're taught as a toddler to preach in.
but then i wondered —
who would ever notice?
i'd like to mention, the art of noticing.

i went to fetch some groceries.
while returning, without my headphones,
i took notice — and the world seemed to hold me in.
a woman was talking to her husband,
chatting about how the war drills cancelled.
two brothers were playing cricket —
i passed them by and heard the younger say,
i'll learn to throw well in time if i grew bolder, yeah?
the older one smiled —
a smile i've done many times — and chuckled.

it's not always the best place to be,
the world i mean — when you wish to fit in.
i'm almost always with my earphones — wired or the other ones,
trying to fade it out: the noise, the surreality, almost all of it.
because it's just so hard to seek the peace i intend to live with.
but then, on a few random days where i feel like the chosen,
everything feels a bit better —
like it's not that bad to be broken?

they function, yes they do —
but i notice the way they lag,
and sometimes choose just not to
show who they are.
so they wear masks:
ones that hide, ones they despise,
and sometimes don’t even realize
until it’s too late — and the mask melts into their skin.

i feel bad sometimes —
this empathy just carries my soul,
brings it to absorb every ounce of pain i can
from the one beside, and the ones i cross.

but on other days like tonight,
i walk, almost free.
there’s good winds, myself carefree.
there’s a lot of work pending —
i won’t deny i’m procrastinating.
but for once i smile,
and i smile at the thought of myself smiling —
for no cause, probably seeming delusional
to the one in passing.

but how do i tell them the moon’s following,
and there’s the hint of wet mud after the evening shower —
the sensation filling up my blood —
and it’s nice for once, easy to exist,
almost easier to fit in.

my thoughts are like string lights,
almost always entangled together.
not one single shines bright —
but sometimes they glow,
like when i'm hit with a current of emotions.
they glow bright, almost enchanting —
and on nights i'm able to sort,
sort through the flickering ones,
the ones that died, and the ones that hold the right light,
i pour them out, let the candle-like wax from my brain transcribe
words and feelings into the right imagery,
hoping it'll make sense by the time i'm done with it.
and this right here is quite one of the examples
of same cord of fairy lights
(i'm to believe i might be magical in all my might).

but then i look around
and see the way they look in return —
and even though i stand out,
stand out in a way the odd one does
in the system of evens —
it’s not the best thing, not the flashiest.

but i continue to walk
with a silent acceptance.
maybe the world is like this.
sometimes i notice the good,
often the bad,
mostly the in-between.

and the greys are a nice position to be in
when the extremes have taken you and thrown you.
for not all magnets hold together —
the like ones just never really go well together.

we're all simply misfits —
and yet the word holds the fits.
so i guess in the end,
we all really do miss the irony of it.

the death: beginning

last night
a part of me died
and i hadn't realized it was taking its last final breath
until i finally couldn't feel it anymore

no amount of music, no amount of talking would blur it out
once again, a death in silence
i couldn't even cry or remorse for what i lost

such parts have died before
but this was my last try(i said so)
and it just hurt so much

i slept with a hollow
woke up with overwhelming numbness
feeling so, so blue

like you could hit me, and i'd cry for what of me died
not because of the pain
because it didn't even hurt—just went numb
and by that—
it hurt so much i didn’t have words

i laughed, went for a walk, listened to music, tried to talk
nothing.
it wasn't going to return.
it was gone.

the urge

like when light leaves the dying’s eyes
like when you watch someone take their final breath,
realize it's never going to come back

like a candle flickering for one last time—
the spoiled wax, of no point
like a bulb going out, its ligament being torn
like a child growing up, having seen oh so much—
they just don’t have any dreams anymore

a part of me died
and today i organize its funeral
with no watchers, no stand-bys
just like always

and to think i'd gotten anywhere
with understanding and accepting—
nowhere.
not even with people,
because they're the ones who killed me

the urge to make the call, ask—beg—why’d you **** me like that?
but just—who would even understand?

i can't even see the screen, writing this with a vision so blurry
eyes so swollen—i even breathe funny
i woke up
wanted to sleep
chose to get up
wish i could’ve slept, because i’ve been crying since

it’s been hours
i was lying curled up
begging for someone to listen
to hold—to just tell me that it’s alright
that i still can be loved like i’m whole

and the funny thing—
i’ve reached the number of deaths
no one in one lifetime could have caused them all

but i let people do it—
the same way, the same streaks


the acceptance

no hopes anymore
no positivity—
it’s just difficult
how do you suppose i can just get back up?

i taste the salt in my tears
find my nose runny

i went back to where i fought so hard to get out from
i felt it—
the death

how it went from barely breathing
to not breathing at all

how it went from staying still at the edge of hope
to crashing against all borders and falling off

how it felt like i’d been drowned, thrown, teared through, broken, dissipated
i—i just can’t

i’ll stop crying in a bit
and just go back to living
except with another part of me dead

i don’t even know how i shall mourn her death
too dumb, but she just had hopes

i’ll wipe my nose, wipe away my tears
get the ice-pack to bring down the swelling
for once drained, once it’s all out

either way, i’ll be a shell of what i’ve been all this while
a bit more hollow on the inside

this time it made no noise
the fall seemed to be never-ending
usually i heard it break, scatter—
the fragments and shards—i picked them up piece by piece

but this time—
it just fell
freefall?
i’m barely alive now

as long as this body exists
with the slightest of life on it
there will be no mourners for all the parts of me that are no more


the questioning

i’m a museum of everything i’ve ever loved
and there’s graves within me
of places where i lost a part of me

and often i don’t remember them all
but sometimes, when a situation asks one kind of mine
i step by the graveyard of my own self
and often mourn them myself

i meet people
and i give them some bits of me
ones i didn’t know existed long before i’d met the person in front of me

and then that part stays with them
they decide—often unknowingly—that it’s in their pocket
on their shoulder, in their fist
somehow never close enough to reside in their mind or heart

and yet sometimes
these parts get lost in people
watching them leave

often they’re simply handed back
sometimes they’re killed

and i need no understanding of how i end up giving them out
like handing candies to children on a halloween night
uncaring who gets which one, no favoritism
blindly trusting, i just head straight right in

always unknown what and how much they hold of mine
i didn’t even plan on trusting or attaching
and yet somehow i did
and then i’m left with nothing but the mere spirit

feeling the hollow
and the lost
how do i not cave in to death
and keep going on like a fool?
how do i live on when i'm barely alive anymore?

the dreaming

grief is sickening, like long aged sour frosting
numbness woven into it, disturbing and devasting and what not
it breathes like something real, coils in the pit of my stomach leaving my body to ache in silence, to reel, feel, and fear

sometimes i feel like i'm stitched together by borrowed light
but then i ain't any moon—perhaps a starlight?

there's parts of me made of people and moments that weren't even meant to stay
and in return all the pieces i gave of myself
so it would be right to say i'm a mismatched puzzle, always missing, never complete

this light burns, seethes, flickers, garbles, echoes
this grief doesn't scream, it lingers
like the perfume that i once used to wear
and that old teddy bear to hug
on nights when i used to feel hollowed

it wraps around my bones
around my muscles and my organs
especially my heart and my lungs

and it squeezes in tight, like a rope that's being pulled from both sides
the knot just seems to grow in size, blindness coming around my eyes

only i know it exists, this grief—
as it breathes under my laughter, only i can feel it

it splinters every single breath i try to take
ghosts all my memories, makes me want to forget
like a constant static—this pain is immense

i've got invisible bruises, oh so many—
you'd see them clearer if you were to see the way my eyes lie in their residues

the death: end

i carry my dead
like folded crushed paper notes that i don't wanna let go of
from the maybe's to the it's never happening
it seemed to be something, now it's a sad little nothing

oh so broken, everywhere i go
i offer parts of me like i'm a free use and throw tissue
but what can i do?
when they never ask for how i am—
only ask of me, how can i help?

went down the lane of thoughts—one that busied my mind and made the voices stop
they blurred, i held the blade in my hand, even my mind stuttered
you've been away and strong for so long, not again
but the pain was immense

yesterday a piece of me had died
and today i was told to

how could i possibly accept all this sorrow
and feel my heart do the free falls again and again?

i have three cuts
not proper—the blade was too weak
i tried to write 'loser'
got stuck at the e
lost myself
returned to and wondered:
perhaps i've got a thick skin

disgusts me—my own head
i still keep on wondering
why can’t i just be dead





this could go on and on
i live in a paradox
despise, wanting to still be alive
deny, wanting to die, despite my tries
a misfit in the world of those who seem to be natural
at finding their own places
i have no one to call my own
why would anyone even want me as their own?

i don't like being stared at,
or glorified,
or looked at like i'm just a showpiece—
almost like a mannequin?
like i'm supposed to do your bidding,
or abide by your ideals.

i don't like being looked at
the way one would look—
when they're judging you for the smallest of hook,
the tiniest of details.
no, you're just aggravating—
there's nothing romantic about that stare.

kinda like—
the difference between being seen
and just looked at on the surface.
what is wrong with my brain,
why can't you seem to judge that?

i wouldn't despise it
if you were to give me the longing glances,
or the ones filled with care,
the kind where i know
they wouldn’t just drift top to bottom—
like fingers on a shiny sphere.

don't objectify me.
i know my worth,
even though i forget it sometimes.
it's a vulnerability
i intend to show.

i’m not the prettiest—
that still doesn't give you the right to know.
i hold the discomfort,
i hold my identity.
feels like shattering,
the moment a wrong glance or a finger
touches any part of my skin.

it's complex.
i don't think you'll understand it.
i'm a human—
not a model,
not an art piece
held up for judging.

you know they’d look at the one you love
the way you do at me right now,
when i tend to swerve.
the severity of it— you wouldn’t know.
what it's like to be criticised,
judged,
given looks everywhere you go.

i still don't understand
why i face them.
more than half come from lust,
and barely a few from the place of love.

i don't shake hands,
afraid of what i’ll touch,
what you’ll feel—
and later think about.
god, i shiver at the mere thought.
too much.

i could be worshipped,
held by the right hands,
but the wrong eyes,
and the wrong views—
they almost always
**** up this land.

can't walk,
can't talk,
can't laugh,
can't show.

if i'm to exist like a stone,
why can't i hurl back
and simply clone
all that you’ve done
and all that you’ve said?

i've got those stares creeping up my skin,
like slithering worms underneath my shin,
smothering me from the inside, like being smoldered in heat.
i feel like i might melt, or worse, fade away into nothing.
perhaps it wouldn't be so bad of a choice, if i'm to disappear.
for it is this feeling that sears, within and carries a scream.
sheer mockery, provided the serenity with which you return that gaze.
i hate you, i hate each one of you that's made me feel bare,
and not the way i'd want to be emotionally with the one whom i hold tender,
but the way— the way— the way—

oh please, let me just disappear.

don’t look at me
if you only wish
to see me as an object.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

i'm a yearner by profession
wanting, requiring, praying and pleading,
all in silence, while acting nonchalant,
'cause it's the new language in the book of expression.

and who wrote it, i wonder?
where did the raw vulnerability go?
why hide in the shadows
while all you wish to sow
is seeds of needing—
a presence, someone to listen?

"you cursed it, didn't you?"
but the irony is, i did not.
i have never.
and perhaps people do admit
what they mean when they're angrier,
but what of those who simply don't know any other means?
anger speaks, frustration cowers, feelings undeter,
and suddenly it's all in the plain sight.
but i don't mean when i say it—
and it's on accident if you hear me.

don't call me a curse.
i do not hex.
i bleed in violet
with every scratch
that blooms on my skin,
birthed accidentally or meant to exist within.
hollowed out a perfect doll,
tried my best—been twenty years and i'm yet to be put to rest.
nine, since it got harder.
was i made this way,
or did they carve me out the wrong mold?

called me cursed, she said so.
admitted saying, i thought so.
did i really? i wondered.
never meant to—was it in the moment,
or just mere anger?

i didn't, i promised.
but it hurt, if i'm being honest.

so once again, i went to what comforted.
picked up the roses, crushed them with purpose.
the thorns bleed—they pinched and pierced.
i bled in violet, with no regret or fears.

the thunder resembled, like a biography almost.
it spoke, said—i'm here. take me whole.
i copied, painted, let it take over—let it rake over.
it gathered, brought upon all that remained
from the very corners, every single ounce of wind.
and then it regained—some power, waited,
gathered up all the hatred, turned it into lightning,
and i bled—
against the skies, down the fields, through the streets,
over every single one—drenched poor souls,
unknown it was my thunder that they entertained.
blade-like sharp, violet like bruises,
the nights covered me in a blanket,
the mornings brought up more such poses.

silence sits
like a mannequin
in every corner.
voices arise, aiming to take the pedestal.
in the very center,
there's no one to guard
or stop them from becoming.
they play me symphonies—
the first says, congratulations on your undoing.

but what fault do i pay for?
is it being unforgivably myself?
perhaps i was meant to mask—
playing the same game like others.
bare-faced wasn't really the best disguise.

i cut out metaphors from my skin,
built them up, needed muscles—
so i raked within.
the best of them all—
my heart, put forward.
forgot the body won't function
without its dull weight.

it's been there, beating,
doing what it ought to do scientifically,
but in terms of being human,
it sits like it's been dead.
sometimes i hold my hand over my chest
just to feel—do i exist?
am i in the mind, do i continue to persist?

funny, the trick they say—
5 things you can see,
4 you can touch,
3 you can hear,
2 you can smell,
1 you can taste.
i've tried it all—
but that's my big mistake.

should have surrendered when i still had the time.
but it isn't anything new.
regrets are a constant part of life—
of most, actually. they all do.
perhaps they don't think
or look at life, having to wonder
what will come through.

when you ought to blame,
repeat what they did.
unfortunate as it is,
you'll have to face the same.

curse, i may not be,
but i've etched the words to my skin
with razor-sharp needles,
and they bleed in violet.
there's cuts made out of shards—
all the mirrors i've thrown,
broken through the walls.
i fill up a glass full of the bearings
for nothing but purpose:
to get close, to push far away,
gather the mess, save the day.

i bring it up,
have a taste.
it isn't sweet,
isn't bitter,
isn't even fake.

too real—
it smells like dark cocoa.
the right taste buds,
and suddenly i've got a violet tongue.

i shall close my eyes,
breathe in, as i hear it on loop:
call me anything you want.
what signifies is what comes true.

you're at fault.
i'm merely the one facing.
i bleed in velvet—but term it violet,
'cause that's the shade they slither
under my skin, all that i've heard,
crawling within—
like worms almost,
creepy, looking for the weakest spots.
and when they find, they reside, curl up
and take a bite—feels like a pinch,
like a syringe deep in my vein.
and they ****, they pull,
and no pressure can stop the punctured wounds,
so i bleed anyway.

it tastes like when pain meets with happy—
both fight for dominance.
comfort enters, so does wondering,
the second-thoughts, words and glances,
and suddenly it's a nocturnal nightmare.

electric, perhaps—
for i get seizures like shock.
the drink too heavy,
the feelings ****** all
the marrow of my life, made me fragile.
do not bother, the label reads.
cursed, i write over it.
and perhaps i've believed
and accepted.
if that is the case,
might as well make it look sacred.

so i offer you
the wine of the cursed—
violet shade, i could call it,
the violet suburban.
and this is me trying,
running out of fuel, of words to bleed.
so it's all been real, all this while—
and since i offered,
cursed as it might be,
i hope you like the drink.

i imagine people
bundled up in grief
of words that they have carried over years—
of things that could not become theirs
of the beings they could have been,
had the world been a bit easier

pain, so pretty

i see them as bundles,
carrying ropes twisted around their guts,
visibly being mocked by all those
who roam light and agile in their lives
the ones adding to that burden

the grief-added mind
carries us so drifted and quick
almost floating through life
but what of the drowning
that this heart undergoes

having shattered so many times,
it has lost all the hopes
and so it gets filled up to the brim
leaks out, seeps into—
and the skin so tender and bruised,
everything cuts a little too deep

sleep is a cacophony

i think i peeked inside the wiring of my brain
for a couple of seconds today
you know it is like—
there is a hole at the very centre
that has a very solid boundary
the outer layer has got hooks and daggers
and things pinned and across

but what is the worst
is the chains and ropes surrounding it
holding that part in the very middle,
at the very centre
and every time they twist and pull,
it does not hurt
but the ache goes a bit numb

and it feels so numb
that sometimes i want to
drown in burning water,
stand under the coldest shower,
eat molten lava,
or consume ice until my mouth burns
just to feel something—at the very least

and it has existed forever
but on days that are hard
it gets ugly
sears in its loneliness
like a deep hollow
resounding with the echoes
of a whale in the ocean

pain so beautiful
so undeterred, unspoken
a telltale so enchanting
it brings you in, soaks you deep
leaves you ragged,
with nothing to sleep with
except for constant nightmares
or even worse—
the dull ache in your existence

yet pain so pretty
because it makes you feel.

because to be honest,
i did not know where to start
no beginning, then how could it end
what do you mean pain is constant?
but when it heightens,
something in my brain hits just right
and i turn into the next be-****** poet

this time it is a mess of stuff—
like things piled up in the corner of your room
and overlooked for long enough
except one day you are trying to find something in them,
sort of like something to balance you
but instead it triggers you
and you realise you are just lost

it outs me,
and puts me in a spot
one that i oh-so
despise to talk about

i saw this prompt somewhere,
asking me what i'd do
if i had nine lives.
and my first thought was—
was i being given a chance
to live as a cat for a while?

sarcastic, of course, it was,
but it really made me think.
so i settled down
and began making a list
of what i'd actually do
if i were to have,
not one, but nine different lives come true.

i believe i'd spend the first
living and experiencing
all forms of art my eyes could pick up:
reading and listening,
watching, looking,
visiting museums, talking to people,
asking the writers what gave birth to their empiricals.

the second, perhaps, i would—
put myself up and forward,
creating the same art
as i hoped i would.
and maybe i'd write
to the length of the night.
i'd create all sorts of felonies,
live somewhere unknown to horizons,
creating my life away.

the third was a confusion.
what did i truly wish to do?
maybe this time, i'd learn
all that there was for me to.
i'd look on and become one
among the smartest people—
to get to know what put them at the top,
and whether it was a life i truly yearned for.

the fourth came easy.
i'd be an artist,
a model or an actor.
i'd climb up high on a pedestal,
look at the faces watching me
from the crowd below,
trying to understand
whether it was really fun
and cut out for me so.

the fifth, i wondered—
what would it be like to live on the roadside,
barely surviving, dying the next day?
i'd want to understand the aches they go through—
those without a home, money, or food—
to perhaps help them better
and make sense of what inspired me to.

the sixth life—
i wanted to spend it being loved,
and being loved by someone
who wouldn't want an other.
just loving, spending my entire existence
there, physically and spiritually,
seeping into one another.
love was it for the sixth.
unknown in the end,
it finished with my sacrifice—
from no one but my lover,
whom i couldn't defend.

the seventh life, then—
i'd hug everyone i come across,
take away their pain:
child-like sorrows, grave depths of despair—
all kinds. and even as i end it,
let it consume me.
i'll have it known that maybe,
this way, the world will be a lighter place to live.
so when i take birth next,
someone could do the same.
and maybe we could share each other's sorrows
and laugh out all the pain.
let it seep through all the shared veins.
and maybe that way,
i'll spend two of my lives together.

eighth—one more to go, and then it’d be over.
so i lived in fear, avoiding getting close enough
to make anyone dear.
i wandered through the nights,
unsure of when i made this choice.
the mornings seemed scary;
i yearned for voices.
i found comfort in the lonely,
slid away slowly,
and let the last life catch on to me—
before i ended it myself,
i know it was lowly.

ninth life. here i was.
and i realized i hadn't chosen the previous three.
someone else made those choices—
who opted, i wondered?
who gave me those experiences i wrote?
suddenly, i realized it was honest:
the past three were lives i never wished to live.

this was perhaps my first.
now, i’m back in the present,
in my twenties,
the past years gone forever.

i don’t know how i spent them,
(i wouldn’t want to remember the forgotten)
but now i realize
all i yearned to do
and the fears i saw coming true.

i’m still here, putting down the list.
i'm going to sleep in tomorrow
and go to my classes the day after.
and i’ll continue,
doing all that i wanted to,
in the nine lives i was offered.

for i could wish,
but i was given just this one.
and i guess i’ll try to live
all of them
in a single one.

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.

there's hope in goodbyes
as they say, a chapter ends —
a new one begins.

but i've come today with a different tale —
take it as a story,
a broken poem,
or an unsent mail.

got a couple good phrases,
jumbled up —
only i know the feeling.
can't seem to sense entirely
their origin,
and so i'll try to pen them down,
hopefully bring them a meaning.

no, i ain't broken-hearted,
and no, i ain't going through the same period —
but this comes from the perspective of all those.

let me specify —
a character from the movie i recently watched,
a person on the roadside i walked upon,
a stray cat who waited —
since forever, it seemed —
for her babies to talk,
and millions of those
who waited for something
that wasn't there at all.

a closure.
an answer.
a little bit of understanding.

but here i am,
left to question it all —
especially your disappearance.

those unanswered texts,
the quiet ache,
the agony of play pretend.
ghosting, the new age calls it —
was that even an ending?

there's a bittersweet melancholy,
hoping for something that's barely there,
yearning with the i'm doomed realizations,
and the gentleness with which grief
seems to give me a hug —
it is rare.

i'd wished it could be like
waiting for letters in a war —
knowing they would meet the soldiers
even in their fall,
knowing there was someone writing,
waiting upon them.

i've never been waited for,
held,
promised —
been just a lost cause.

the world resonates with such:
echoes of conversations,
words left unspoken,
unseen messages
pretending to be left unread.

people fading from each other's lives
like mist in the mornings,
fungi growing on breads.

i've talked to silence,
left by my own.
quite a few said goodbye,
most left me forlorn.

i stayed —
same places,
old memories,
holding onto things
that didn't plan on returning.

the destinations became ghosts of the past —
yet i kept writing to the same addresses.

a few didn't even leave —
just faded
into sweet little nothings.

hope, hope,
oh this dear solitude —
hope remained despite the static.

i'm stitching this up
with the remnants of what i once was.
this ain't no monologue,
written in the melancholy of not chosen —
left for yet another job.

an irony,
a metaphor,
no reasons — just because.

i intended to keep it
as a piece
that reminded me of being haunted —
with the memories,
and the facts,
and the presence of a human
that held me to the edge.

and yet,
i find no anger,
no resentment,
no ill will —
no praying of curses to befall and end them.

there's only love,
perhaps longing —
belief that if it existed,
it had the right to be termed
as ended.

only if there was a full stop —
just like at the end of phrases,
sentences,
and even chapters —
a single dot.

it could have helped me move on.

but no —
i'm left,
standing in the middle
after being promised to be met halfway.

never intended to be here —
i'd said so in the first place.

one-sided letter,
bonding,
or heartache.

there's acceptance in solitude.
i'll wear the letters of goodbye,
despite knowing
you never said it.

please don't return
only to tell me —
despite no closure —
it was the silence
that aged.

hereby i announce the signs
the tell-tale of how i met the monsters one random night
and no, i don't remember when exactly
hello! they didn’t appreciate me

i saw them in people first
shadowed creatures looking over their shoulders
creeping inside from the back
i watched them take place in their head
and in their eyes—every time i saw myself
what if—what if—what if—

they know who you are!
they know what you hide!
they will see through you, you need to disguise!
hide! mask! they'll come in the night
despise—despite everything—you need to run and find cover
you can't be bare—not in front of this world
they'll hurt more—seeing the scars you carry
blame it all on you, for the past—when you weren't so merry
they'll see through the false hope and the desires to live
they'll make you hate life more, you need to perish

then they entered my head
from people, to me—within deep—etched to the core
they haunted all my memories
they stared and made me feel obnoxious

i don't even know—why, when or how
or any of the other questions you could ask around

i have a head full of monsters and i killed them one by one
alas, only if i'd known—they replicated, gave birth to new ones

and so i live
with a demon on my shoulder
a mix of all those who brought me up altogether
and it reminds, and reminds and reminds and screams
it hollows me out, every bit from within

and sometimes i hope i'll find a way to silence it or even a simple meaning
but then i look into the eyes of others, see the mirth—the silent sly creatures—the humans that walk on this earth
and i lend my ear to the demon, let it whisper, let it carry me forward
for who am i, if i can't be scheming

and it wasn't to hurt
but to protect
no one did it for me
i learnt and played myself

never to be just a pawn in their games
the monsters ruled me out, splashed me with blood
as i walked and cut across every other piece on the board
they cheered, screamed and haunted me with all the gore
and i never laughed, only cried
all my tears, my eyes dried

i'd tell you to beware, wish you never see any
for they hold over and ensnare
everyone who's watching, they've had their own
we weren't born with monsters
but now we're the ones that are shown
bright in the light, not simply in the nights
we walk during the day—
i hate my brain.

it sneers, you know?
every time someone tries to get too close
it mocks—my reflection, i see it gripping my nerves
watch it sipping on my blood
and every moment i'm told, i’m here for you
the demon sips on my feelings
drains the word, they’re left with no meaning
and every chance i get to feel the warmth—opposite to the usual cold
it leers, peeks over, curses and takes over
it's not me if i push you away, i'd want you to know and understand and for you to stay
please get rid of him for me, for i lose strength day by day
i do not know how longer i can carry
i've got a demon on my shoulder, and it rose from all the ones i walked across
it is cross with the word, an angel at first—it just wouldn't let me be merry.

just a simple question,
dressed as a metaphor —

where do i get buried
when i can barely breathe on this earth?
kind of like a suffocation so deep,
filling my very being —
in my veins.
oh, i feel so weak.

invisible cuts bleed,
a kind of self-punishment.
spent so long handing out pieces of myself
like fragile offerings
to daily otherworldly deities —
hoping to provide
even an inch of comfort
that i usually needed.

was it ever enough?

yet called names, looked at in strange ways —
speculated every moment,
like a statue in an odd place.
as if they see through it all —
all the façade
of being high up on the clouds.

humorous, it shall be,
if they were to see
the stricken sounds i make —
grief-filled,
and vowing to never
ever let a pair of hands
hold my heart again.

this bleeds.
aches so tenderly —
like trying to whisper through a scream,
like trying to write to a hollow
that doesn't seem to cease,
like an overflowing cannon
that just never really spills.

will this be seen
as that quiet, raw, untamed beauty?
beast-like,
trying to hold it
within the grasp of stiff hands?

have they felt a little less alone?
perhaps in my company —
for i wouldn't want them to go
into the same feelings
of never being heeded to.

i wished they'd see,
but i'm walked all over through.

can't help it —
yeah, i know.
always left wondering:
why can't i comfort
with words
as they're meant to?

they feel like smoke and silence —
barely hard to describe
or to put down.
the heaviness
heaves a sigh
every time i spread my arms
a bit around.

maybe connections are hard.
maybe i should be quieter.

speaking has never helped —
perhaps i should tie
my hands,
my feet,
my mouth —

and vanish?
disappear?
become a ghost without a heartbeat —
because i haven’t really
been living either.

will you listen to the echoes
of these voices —
and the way they sound
in the night,
and when the sun dawns,
and the skies align?

will you see?
will you listen
to me?

oh yes, but would you like to see me smile?

i stand above the bathroom sink,
staring in the mirror
under the flickering light over my head.
the dark circles, familiar—
a pair of scissors, one hand twitching,
strands of hair lying in the wash basin.
i chopped my hair in half,
shredded, shaggy layers framing my face.
a smile of freedom, one of acceptance,
the glistening madness in the eyes unsaid.

i stir what once was my skin,
now mere blood—tying myself to this life with an oath,
my ode to swear, to protect and to stay
true to my kin.
cruelty vibing in chaos-kissed violence.
how many times do i shed this skin
until it's not me who remains in the mirror,
and i finally forget my own name?

babies grow old into something brutal—
monsters that walk this place,
sing lullabies to their own preachers.
i've slipped and fallen and i've been left behind,
but the board i'd been playing upon
it turned upside down.
here, the world relies on my head.
i've got the ceiling under my feet,
the skies in my chest.
every ragged breath speaks a tune—
a horror comedy, ransacked, askew.

anew, this curse—
laughing while running through a field,
landmines under my feet.
drapery of melancholy, slips forsaken, hugs me tight.
the curtain of reality—i tear it half.
hands reaching out as claws,
drawing scars on the delusions.
there's beauty in forgiving,
madness in illusion.

once again, again, and again once more.
sixty-one days crossed out on the calendar
that once held way too many promises.
the ladder of failure and of persistence
carries bodies drowning in trying and abstinence.

there isn't any exit in the end.
the broken headphones,
cacophonies of blown-out candles
and half-smushed chocolate cake—
a brief history, periodical, falling,
hell-bent trying to be treacherous,
reaching out to pull the noise from music,
leaving raw voices, hearing them bruise.
archive this, paint the mess, click a picture,
write a note, believe the misplaced faith.
chase that feeling,
run half a mile toward the grim.

oh, but do you see the lights
when you close your eyes?
shattering silence.
the dance of a rugged doll—
i turned her key thrice, and once more.
better to be safe than sorry
amid the growing legions of undeterred regions.
do you hold her or stay near?

tsk, tsk, tsk—sounds of your begging,
faking every emotion, every gathering.
these masks of clay, carved to stone.
pity, pity, pity.
do you even remember who you were before?

empathy is a sin disguised as understanding.
sympathy for the weaklings.
you're playing monogamy,
devour the strength of the flies and the snickers.
tattoo yourself with flames—
let them draw in the scorching heat,
watch them be triggered.

sinners walk this place,
absent, indigenous—
they'll perish soon either way.

proclaim the promises in disguise
of gods for whom you pray.
metamorph into frankensteins,
surrender fascism—
believers of the wrong truths.
mercy shall be provided to you.

i might be the villain.

you could sit at the highest of buildings
by the edge, always at the edge
legs dangling, undone shoelaces
staring at what is familiar
but no longer close
groups of people
casually drifting by
as if they aren’t taking what was left of me, whole

and the irony stares back
laughing as if it finds the situation hilarious
i’d known it all along
and yet i played right into the arms
of all those who didn’t mean
what they preached to aim
it has and always been
one-sided, delirious
stemming from want
ending in hurt

the unease gnaws at the surface now
crooked teeth waiting to harm
they bite, leave scars
i nod, obey, let them think i’ve forgotten
but it’s hard
hard when it seeps into my dreams
in the folds of fabric
i sense the sharpness of the blades
the taste lingers
at the back of my mouth, it hinders
can barely breathe, so i try
heaving a sigh
a voice so calm, it could make the hurricanes surrender

they haven’t seen me so far
on surface, and moments when i let it come undone
all the ties, and all the threads
the doll-like puppet with broken strings
versions still exist
messy, violent, trembling and quiet
and yet, flinching is no longer there

anger sizzles, singes my own
never out of control
dies in the borders
even if all that remains is soot
and the sole will to direct
comfort vs control
a safety too intense to trigger

you’ve been so good this far
and you’ve told me so
that nothing could go wrong
and i ain’t made from a broken mould
then why do i melt
when the temperature goes high
why do i swell
with all that i haven’t said or put out to light
why these bubbles
of wanting to escape
from the same arms that have carried
and brought me out
why do you push me back down
to where i came from
it’s almost as if
you’d like it
if i were to become your sole
based on the fact
you’d mould me back
into whatever you’d like
and you say i wasn’t my own?

i sit often
staring
but i zone out
out of my body, blocking my thoughts
suddenly i look back
and i see me
sitting there, she looks relaxed
i roam through the rooms
finding and catching onto souls that could
help me, perhaps understand even
but barely any exist
and those who do
are out of their bodies simply because
they couldn’t persist, too loud

so i shake this feeling
of being watched
they could, but they’d never know
what i think and how i know
they’ve rubbed love on me
disguised lies as happy memories
there’s midnight’s empty felonies
that i didn’t even commit
but the board carries plague
and it holds up posters
i sleep, with a prize on my head

this was what you wanted,
i guess
prize on my head
and once with you
you could exchange me for anything you’d want
anything you could have
and the funny exchange here
i was the one who set up that alimony
fooling me became a passion for you
the fool in real turned out to be you

how can
i be the star
when you’re out and about
every single time
behind my light
telling me i need to dim down
and when i do
you speak of fake promises
oh i might be the wrong one
victim play, all you're is empty premises

if you lie to the ones that hold you close
you’re the biggest fool
why’d you simply let them go?
and how can you live even — that way
pretending, double-faced
is it not hard?
i get tired mainly by watching you mask

it’s awful
makes my breath go a little too breezy
and for seconds i feel it
the world slows down
and i look at you
the image i’ve had of you
it shatters, the screen catches fire
the building burns down
and i go cross-eyed
trying to explain, to express
it hurts though
would you care enough to leave one last caress?

fake as it might be
could you look me in the eye and repeat
i haven’t lied

but you did

it’s not fair
i repeat that every time something goes wrong
i could put distance
but they’ll term me as the one who stood in the long
that i was rude
but i misplaced all my secrets and all my trust
and left them to you
but i see you go
you speak ill of me with those
who stabbed me not so long ago
and you were there, looking at the wounds
you watched me bleed
and now i see what came out of you

i imagine
bloodied hands over my body
the hope to see some inkling of regret
that you got and lost me
but i’ll continue
for i can’t play the role as well
and i can’t deny that the soft spot i had for you
turned my life into a living hell

i’ve been poisoned before
the first time — right in my nerves
through my brain, down my body
poisoned by the particular ones

took over my heart
seeped into my veins
refused to let me live

antidotes were rare
with the lucky ones
and i had no clover or charms
when the toxins came from my own
slipped into my being like kisses exchanged during farewells
that’s when i found the way

twice being poisoned
i ingested the venom myself
fell head first into the vat of chemicals

the third time, it didn’t hurt as much
just left me reeling with an impending numb

the fourth and the fifth — and so it continued
ingesting what could **** you, i took it in varying degrees

different ways — sometimes inhaling, often through my hearing
and god, did it leave me searing

i’d screamed at first, cried during the second
the helplessness, the forced resilience — visceral
but i brought it on myself
then i admitted, looked into the eye of the holder
who gripped the vial tight
offered them the kindest inkling
hoping they’d catch onto the feeling
poisoned or not — i’ve lost to this existence of mine

i’m poisoned often still
every now and then, i notice traces of it
it’s there in my being, in my body —
sometimes i believe more than blood, it’s the venom i bequeath
and yet, i’ll say — i’ve trained enough
to be proud that the poison doesn’t make me so weak

and there’s still strength that remains
despite the nights i spend crying
and the moments where i feel like dying
there’s hope that one day
it ought to stop or i’ll have become immune enough
to not drop to my knees
no matter how new the way,
how strong the feeling


could i come up to you
face you—meet it headfirst—
ask why you did that
and why it had to be me?

was i too reckless?
were my ways wrong?
maybe i never gave you
what you wanted all along.

but i tried—god, i tried—
and still, i let you hold me,
even when it felt stained.

now, i can’t wash it away.
this—however it is—
stays.
and i think it will,
as long as i keep seeing you
and pretending i don’t know
the truth—
and how i once promised myself
everything i never had
and never could.

i’d ordered a belgian dark cake
the worst kind of bitter frosting they could find
i received it, packed like the perfect delight
opened, scanned, the outsides a lookalike
except i ate the borders, an odd way
devoured the corners
the centre held buttercream
with the note
i hope you pay no mind

flaws could be accepted
i’d have done so
but knowing you left it
as it was, knowing it despite the promises
you could have changed,
could have exchanged
despite knowing, you still brought me the same
and now i sit
with the centre, having reached so far
i see the core and how it’s rotten
and all this long, close i think you are
enough to admit, that it hurts
etched into my tastebuds
it *****, but i’ve tasted this before
and the right order, it’s never really been placed
never heeded to, thus i never had it
what i believed to be the final try
might as well go ahead and say you’ve lost it

i’ll accept it, but i don’t think time and fading with it works
so i sit and stare and look at you, and let it hurt
it's just a cake, i know
i wish you had noticed,
only when it mattered to me the most.

there’s something akin to nuts and bolts in my heart, i think.
sometimes i wonder if it’s made out of stone,
or if it’s a machine.

feelings are messy —
and even though the world gave them names,
i can’t match the descriptions,
so i just rename.

something within sometimes pinches too hard.
i’m left wincing,
rubbing at my chest
as if it’ll soothe my past.

i intend to move on — that, i do —
but i can’t put it into words,
can’t explain why i am just because.

"i wasn’t always like this" —
but this?
i don’t know which version of me i speak of.

i’m worried.
deathly worried, more so.
but i just want to keep existing,
’cause —

what if there’s someone out there
willing to oil up these corkscrews in my brain,
have it speak to my heart,
make it make me speak —
and spell it all out?

i intend to find a love.
a mate.
’cause if i was born with something that intends to hurt,
i can’t believe
i was born without someone
who intends to heal
and aid.

i knew it — something was here
within me, beside me, around me.
being woken up by fire isn't so surreal.

stepped down on the floor, felt it through my bare feet,
watched the skin glisten, brighten,
turn red and burn with such an intensity.

the heat was unbearable, so were the surroundings,
and yet — yet i found myself going down the lane of memories.

the pathway, a tunnel — almost like a water slide,
bleeding with my tears.
i fell and fell,
found it impossible to reconcile

with everything and the no-longer-supposed-to-matter things of my past.
felt watched, looked around,
remembered the concept of “nazar” in the background —
someone’s always watching, always picking, always hoping
for me to fall, to go down, to enter the lows and never get back up.

i hate the color orange. it just messes me up,
reminds me of all the times i hoped it wouldn’t come true.
i stand amidst the burning flames, watch their color blaze,
see it in my own eyes, stand tall watching myself smile.

am i sleeping? why do i sense no meaning?

the embers rising from the hearth could melt gold — make it blood.
i feel it through my veins and my bones, my muscles and my soles.
the lines are blurry — so is my vision.

i intended to wake myself up, but i can't stop sleeping.
i watch her — and him — and myself — and my dreams.

the final line loops back to the same question:
was i ever awake, or was this fire the irony to hire?
was i up at stake, all this while?
i did truly forget how to smile.

but then i inhabited,
held it close, hugged it.
tiny little sparks emerged from the cacophonies.
i dreamt with meaning, slept with a feeling.
the fire was an old friend —
the memory lane one lost, but remembered quite a lot.

i found a water jug at my side table.
the floor didn’t burn or sear.
they still watched,
but i had the evil eye pressed up close —
sleeping and dreaming of lying with my only 'gold'.
it sparkled, it shimmered, it brightened, and my heart glimmered.

perhaps i was never awake.
it wasn’t no nightmare.
i’m happy where i am.
wouldn’t want to bargain —
not here or anywhere.

i remember
a memory —
it isn't mine.
someone else's.

being the kid we used to be
(yes, i'm writing it in their pov)
we drank lemonade under the summer sun,
watched the bulb in the sky brighten,
heard the promises of forever
where no voice resonated.

echoes of my woes
learned to yearn within these walls.

it's a contrast: sweet, distant, aching.
have you ever heard of feeling nothing —
like the silence after chaos,
a void so deep,
there seems to be nothing it's composed of at all?
an absence that has screamed louder since its presence.

i listen to skyfall as i write,
and no, the sky hasn't fallen —
but it seems it would have felt better if it did.
a way to express what i feel deep inside,
since the breaking.

there are regrets.
like a flower blooms under the sun,
my regret bloomed under the skin of love,
whispered between lines,
composed of all the maybes it could have been —
the ideas, the fantasies,
versions of you that never came to just be.

perhaps i'd dreamt different —
not of someone,
but of how things seemed to me.

but it's nighttime, and i sit,
and like a building collapsing, i think —
stars falling, heavens opening, illusions crashing,
my heart strengthening.
it rubs painfully against the chest — or so.
i wish it hurt just a little bit more,
for i feel it tends to lack intensity.

how you simply waved a goodbye —
i felt it like waves in the sea.
yours was late, brief —
mine drowned, delivered me to the ending.

i have my window open.
i'll try to describe the night sky.
it still seems impossible,
like it did that night.

the stars — they watched me silently.
maybe they witnessed the fall as well.
and then i wondered —
did i even know it all that well?

maybe they were the lovers who never made it home.
maybe they were the parallels to what was meant to be alone.
i kinda hoped it'd be one way —
either you'd become a star, or me, or us together.
and whoever remained would have watched it
as we grew old together.

alas, what remains of it now?
the memories, the hauntings —
are they simply the nothings in between the heavier things?

wave after wave,
they take me with them,
bring me back
to where i began.

we were kids once,
with lemonade hearts —
not the sugary kind,
but the one filled with zest and a spark.

the sky remembers all that i've forgotten.
the same track on repeat —
i wish i'd heard it the night that brought me to hit rock bottom.

i want to write and write and write
and let it devour you and me
and all the eyes that ponder over these words whole.

for that nothing
felt like everything for a moment.

and i can't believe
you missed out
on becoming the lovers —
the ones i dreamt for us to be.



that was indeed just the end, then.

like the sounds of tires on gravel
when the track twists just right —
hold—wait—stop—
i need to catch up to my memories.
but what of all the ones you left with?
bled into them: the last gaze, the lasting wounds.
oh, look — it crumbled.

had you promised to stay
and followed it through,
i'd have torn the sky apart
with bare hands,
set ablaze all those who came in our path.
but alas, easy way out —
i saw nothing (that was enough then),
never saw beyond you
(but now i see all of you).

and i shall wash away,
off the shore, at the edge of the boat.
i shall let go and watch.
you've slipped from my hands
like dust in between fingers.
the sandglass broke,
so did the beats at which my heart spoke.
i wish you the best.
i shall hope you find rest
in places that aren't filled with me.

it's a closure,
it's my closure —
turns out,
that's all i've ever seeked.

i've got something,
a feeling of all sorts

if there's anything i have learned
through the entirety of my growth
it's to know and understand
and find the right moment
where i have to twist and wring and pull
such a tight knot in my chest,
just so none of my feelings
would sleep anywhere close
to those they are concerned for
or took birth 'cause of

barely tried for 407 hours,
simply gave up

always a mix and combination of almost
never the forever
always a something,
never the nothing's everything

i will wring out my heart
until every single drop
of this newly found heartbreak
breaks me from within
and does not seep
into anyone else's thought

but what if i meant
i wanted to disappear
only to be found
by the one who has enough time
and enough want
to actually search for me?

some days i despise
having this weak, old, ratty heart
that is attached to the tip of my finger,
not even the sleeves—
and slips itself
into the pocket of anyone
who so much as breathes

do not despise the love i feel
(even though doing the gulp of acceptance
is like drinking lemon
straight from the pet it's found in.)

the bone:

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

someone once asked me what love is.

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

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

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

i love love.
(i hate it.)

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

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

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

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

it’s beyond that.

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

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

something alive.

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

it’s happiness.
and pain.

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

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

i get the meaning now
behind the words:

my heart beats for you.

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

and it's toxic.
but it’s magical.

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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



the muscle:

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

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

now, i write—

love is—
a verb.
an action.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

let’s just skip over this.


the skin:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

like your family.
like some friendships.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


the nerves:

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

loving is
feeling all the positives
and all the negatives.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"i love you,
stay here, whole."



the whole:

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it's us.
love is us.

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

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

that's loving.

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

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

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

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

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

love is—love.
loving.
it's loving.

i love this.

it's evolving.
it's like us.

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

it's us.

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

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

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

because love—
will keep going on.

it's love, no?









the shadow:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

but sometimes
it’s valid too.

these are all paradoxes.

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

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

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

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

though,
a couple things that love isn’t:

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

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

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

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

it’s
chaotically messy.


and if the love
hurts you—

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

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

for sometimes,
distancing
is loving—

for them
and for you.

love,
but love yourself too.

it could
wrap around your ribs
like silk—

but you'd realize
the thorns
hidden beneath it.

love
doesn’t have to be monstrous,
forced.

it doesn’t have to be complex.

just
feel what you feel.
express,
and bloom.

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

this part
is the shadow of love.


i guess i did perform an autopsy over love.

i've used pain to combat grief
perhaps i'll forever be a broken radio,
humming the same old tune
on the same old default settings.
no one to repair, not one soul to listen.
but i promise to play that random night
when u need the same old comforting,
the same old recurring.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

she's got fluttering keys in her ribs,
ones that'll open the locks to whichever treasure you wish to seek.
but to get the permission
or be acknowledged,
you might have to give up the key
of all your knowledge.

i've got a thorned flower stuck in my throat.
it blooms usually, and i see beez buzzing around,
trying to get close—
they'd like to.
except butterflies are the only ones allowed,
for they wait, and i deliver
the petals and the cores
they'd like oh so much
on a silver platter.

august is bittersweet,
and then there's nights like these.
i've the right, perhaps, to smell like cinnamon
and honeysuckle—
candied apples dried in the sunsets.
burn the candle that says autumn.
the color? i call for brown.
i hope the leaves shed,
and all the images imagining myself as ruthless— drown.

i'd love the crunch,
love the music—
’cause it's scarf season.
and if it gets cold just right,
i'll pull out that one sweater,
the one i like.
peachy-fuzz almost, like a carrot cake—
enough to hide, enough to comfort,
a warm hug in all its wake.
and perhaps a combination of wildflowers and wine
would go well that one evening
that i ought to spend with love's seasoning.

and we might be dead by tomorrow,
having missed out on all that we planned—
all the things we couldn't do,
feelings we couldn't share,
or the pictures they banned.

but i'll walk with you by the sunset.
these are the good old days,
the golden age,
the future will talk about a couple years further.
like we do—talkin' of time as nostalgia runs through.
perhaps the present is the past.
every second lost is a new one cast
upon the light of our souls,
like the sunshine in the morning—
watching the sun, feeling it bleed through the sky
and fall upon you, sole.

i do not look out the window anymore.
face down in the moment,
wondering, reliving, rethinking, desiring—
the way it shapes you.
a newer tomorrow, for better or worse perhaps.
you ought to respect and accept,
merely ’cause we signed the time's pact
when we first joined in—

the circle of humans,
being termed to be alive.
we listened and followed,
all the rules, abided by all the runes.

it might have brought us to the ruin—
the time's doing.
so i flee into the night to feel
and return back before the first white light,
pretending i wasn't reading
or speaking out loud about all that has vanished.
i sang and committed felonies,
but during the day, i'll wish for the autumn.
look at you, with eyes and words bespoken,
and share the thoughts and this one playlist
that i made to live through the summer.

midnight's a dream many wish to live.
i just hope we were somewhere better to believe and give—
hands full, hearts empty, souls bespactled,
but eyes like sweet ’n sour candy.

there's a before and there's an after.
there's a cord around my throat as i picture
and tell this to you—
the secrets of the world and of our beings.
we weren't meant to live and see.

let's step out,
even as the cord tightens, and even as i grow silent,
i'll sign you, and we'll run through the greens.
let the rain drench us all—
we'll glitter through the later summer sheen.

we were innocents.
capitalized, thrown off the tracks,
told the biddings we ought to serve.
it was never fair, never intact.
and yet—
we played and searched dignities,
wrapped them up, like secrets—
all our possible endings and deficiencies.

the candle's been burning long enough.
it's round the corner, the time has begun—
a play of words, of everything that we've got.
let's throw all the weapons
and light the fire to mop
our solemn and easy-going.
we'll sit, stare, wonder, and wander—
and maybe, finally, for once, achieve what's worth something
to a yearner.

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.

have you heard the cries of angels
as they plead to their kind,
begging to be freed of all the myths
that tie them down to brothels?

systematic anchors of the dark—
they scream until their throat tears apart,
asking to be let out, to be led free,
their body and their minds.
razor-sharp agony running through their veins—
is it gold or is it silver?
is it even blood that runs,
or mere glitter?

their eyes are painted red,
claws sharpened to push off the dread.
they wipe away and break themselves,
shouting to the blind,
always being left behind.

the angels of the nights—
they guard and they protect,
giving and resting, breaks at the harbors,
washing away like they've caught rabies.

maybe it's a society's flaw that they carry:
plastered smiles and pearly teeth.
they gnaw at the necks
of the ones who made them merry.

look what you've done to the divine,
asking to be met with pure versions.
you slid down venom through kisses,
lying in the quiet stillness,
making and breaking promises.

haunting, taunting, daring, breaking—
incredibly, they are
fierce protectors of all the devotees.
preached them, should have.
it's too late to place gifts filled with apologies.

now, if they're after your life,
who shall, but you, complain?
you were warned.
wanted, you've become.
the angels long since died—
now they disguise,
plotting in the depths of your despair.
they'll paint you black and blue,
like you did in their nightmares.

deconstructed the symbolism,
rage-baited all the monsters.
it's the seven sins against one virtue.
feral, i call upon—your turn to plead not guilty.
bask in the unprovided mercy,
for peace from violence lasts only long enough.
soon, you shall meet the ruin—
the unholy, brutal, almost forgiving,
built upon the humane exorcism.

standing at the edge
staring over the sky up above
i wear blue, feel the rain on my skin
and wonder how it'd be like
if i were to just give up.

a metaphorical ruin in all its might
pen in hand, smoke coiling in the pit of stomach
a heart that's too tender for this world
bandaids, torn, wasted, blood soaked
scars, numerous, multiple, scalded, searing, borderline rot

a porcelain doll needs to be perfect
glass button eyes that shine like the moonlight
a smile stitched in thread and silk, perfect at all times
strings ought to be pulled, it ought to move perfect
slightest crack in the jaw of disobedience
and cut all the threads that tie her to existence

the hollowed out torso must be snatched tight
fill the empty with the shoulds
stuff it up with cotton
pillowy soft and smooth
fingers held in a perfect swirl
eyelids dunked in silver, lashes painted and curled

they created her with wishes for a different one
she came to life, unbeknownst to the prays of her creators
assuming she was needed, she gave her all
failed—character, turned a bright velvet rot

they failed her
illusioned into thinking a necessity would rise
where she'd be needed
she worked all her life
trying to prove—worth it, worth what even is that?

porcelain lungs kept her weak enough
walked and ran
had her wings stolen, the branches cut just so she couldn't ever grow them again
venom infiltrated her being, yet she kept going
the same, hiding all the vulnerabilities
sometimes, often, trying to encompass
failing—drifting off the shore

she tried, gripped onto the landing's edge
took a step up
trusted the wrong hand
and so she became one among the fallen

she grew
the happy drug, clumsy clownery aiming to attack the hurt
she'd pull the hands of those were too far
those way too down, bringing them up
foolishly empathetic,
she always had the right words

decade over and here she was
realization dawning upon
what was considered normal
had made her mind go wary

she didn't see the same with the other manufactures
hers—just refused to carry
the burden of existence, of not being friends with the other dolls
they dimmed down her brightness,
thunder came upon—and disguised her as the monster

she pulls at herself
disgusted seeing the reflection of what she has
failed to be the doll she should have
became the one they never wanted to brag

thus came upon the search for some mighty
a protector with a sword and shield
racked brains and held hands
asked for genuine—it turned out to be a mine filled land
another facade, disappointment—
it began to feel like nothing
and then numb was all she had

disqualified out of the race of being put up in the stores
kept on the sidelines, with the ones that lose their chores
they were perfect, on the display
built for reasons, developed for anything but treason

she relapsed, they played,
toyed her around
until she grew tired of the dates
repeating themselves, same things over different days

then came the hour—when she ripped herself apart
held what was the soul they'd given her
did it not turn out to be art?

the soul needs nourishment
requires the nutrients of love, of care, of resemblance
protection from the weather, sunshine during the dark
this one dissembled herself to tether

they wouldn't have known
couldn't ever see
was everything at once
nothing at all for eyes to seek

splintered her ribs in trying to breathe through the ties
lived through the silence, getting used—to the voices
chambers of memory, locked away, dissipated
decay of life, once that was held up proud in devotion

affection turned sour, always a hidden meaning
lullabies held infection, becoming a permanent ghost in order to stop
bled in violet
sometimes a black
often there was nothing to bleed
she ripped at that was left

“is it fair
to bleed
upon the ones
who didn't give you the wounds?”

“is it fair
to talk
to let my darkness
come over you?”

you could cower, or fear, or walk away
you could choose to just not listen
i think it'll be better that way
but for me to do the same
i'd have to talk
and talking is not what i can do
so i sit
late nights, after trips
in my bedroom
i lie, halfway on the bed
staring at the glass panes of my balcony
watching it rain
and it rains so good

just a few minutes ago
i was drenched in the tears of the skies
and i felt
i thought i'd cry with it
feel it, let it go
but i cried after it
as if it left something
or
i'd meant to wash out everything that i felt
under the rain, choosing to get drenched
but i think it washed out all the walls that i'd put up
they were false, not strong or tall enough
and so they tore, broke down
and i—once again—bare to the world
i felt it all and let it seep out

i lie on my bed
converses dripping in mud
down my legs
i aim to say i hate it
but right now
i don't care about the mess that it makes
i just continue to read
and write
whatever hurts
and i try to draw
but my hands are clammy
and they shake
i can't take pictures either
feels uncanny

there's a movie playing
it tells me to speak
tells me to move on with commitments
to love and to repeat
it's the need
i can't do it
something's up with me
there's the mess of wiring in my brain
i think somewhere a long long time ago
it got electrocuted with pain
and now i got shocks
in form of feelings

and when it hurts
i tend to rule it out
because it's not worth it
and because i don't deserve it
and i can't accept it
i can't even seem to take it
i wanna be heard
without having to perform

but i think
i'm turning to every single thing
that i thought wrong
a disappointment?
i hope i'm not

the movie however
a quote—
‘if something's eating at you,
you gotta find a way to use it’

so i shall use it
put forward and even go as far as to misuse it
i shall write
just—don't don't don't react, alright?

it wouldn't matter if i disappeared
like i'll be considered a loser by those who term to hold me dear
what will the society say, they'll think of that
not me, cause i just wasn't worth all that

mattering—is a tough achievement
do i? for anyone really? jot down this event
and i try to tell myself all the time
i don't give a ****
but the thing is i do
and i wanna matter
except i'm easily as replaceable
as the piece of paper

i can't speak up when it matters the most
so i tend to let moments just go
and i can't express to save someone's life
i can't do any ****—to save my own, right?
and i absolutely always mess everything up
like chaotic is fine, but being this way—a ****** chaos?

i might be the issue
i feel like i'm nothing

and it messes me up
cause i just spoil things
there's the immense level of sadness
that i carry
it feels like it resides in my bones, way deep behind my eyes
like every time i try to speak
it just doesn't feel right
like i stare, and observe
and i try to understand them
and love

but reciprocated—finding it acceptable enough
is something i'm yet to achieve
and i know they wouldn't bother
honestly, no one does

just don't understand it
like it isn't like i had a bad breakup
or like i lost a family member
or like i was violated that bad
it doesn't feel fair to feel this big dark messy level of sad when life wasn't even that worse
like everyone has it no?

but they told me i feel too much
"if i'm too much
accept me no?"

i feel like nothing
and sometimes i want to give in
to the night
walk away
not look back
become one with the rain
or the sky
or the wind
and just disappear
forever

"i'm fine, trust me
i'll be fine"
i just don't understand it

why have such a sad soul?
why make things sad, when they are entirely whole
every single time
i speak
it's burdening
and i wouldn't do that to my enemies
i don't think i'm doing okay
like i'll be—obviously
"i'm okay"
during moments and hours
but at the end
there's something really wrong with me
like i'm broken? whatever is wrong with me
can't be dealt with
or made just right enough for people to see
i'm not that bad
i feel like i don't deserve to be here
(i wanna take up all the place in your heart
and consume it, not tear it apart)

am i sickening?

i'm not good enough
"no don't say that"
i'm not though
"please don't say that"
i'm not good for anything
"please—the fresh wound and you're too sensitive"

like i don't deserve compliments or anything for that case
and every time someone says
i'm good or i make them feel good
it feels fake

like what do u aim at
what you talk about
i'm pretty sure i'm messed up
a piece that seems to make things up
i can't make jokes but can be the clown
can't make u laugh, but that's what my life's all about
i don't even know how to have fun
or make it fun
boring, sidepiece
overlooked, freaked out, messed up

nothing helps
nothing really
i'm numb
and i feel too much
it's complicated

"i don't wanna feel this way
i don't wanna be this way
i wanna be normal"

every time i write it down
feels like i'm faking
like it isn't even that bad
they still can't see it
i'm in the wrong body perhaps
this isn't me
wasn't who i was
but i write down everything
i'd want people to know
even then i feel judged
it's my own self and the demon on my shoulder

feels so bare though
at times, i want to be alone
but i despise it
being in someone's company
having to pretend it's normal
being myself
getting eaten away, by the paranormal
watching them live and feeling
like why the sadness exists only within me?
where does it come from
do i perhaps have a curse
have i done something really really bad
a long while ago?

writing was my oxygen
now it's become poison
i let it breathe
but it consumes within me like a lochless monster
and it takes up every bit of my skin
i've got words inked, you just can't see cause they're transparently written

could i be invisible
or hide
somewhere, for a while until it feels feasible
to exist again and to breathe without it having feel like there's a big ******* hole
vacuuming all the good, leaving behind all the bad
there's a tightness in my chest

could i bleed, metaphorically?
or physically even—let it seep and stain even the black
will it stop hurting then? every time it feels good

was asked for something positive
could come up with nothing
what even is there
but then i looked at their faces
and they seemed to wonder
oh such dire thinking
we're all kind of messed up?

ask me how i feel
i'd say great
cause i do
at least until i'm silent, for a second
left alone to look around
need help, not okay

"i'm alright
don't worry
it's just
sometimes
it gets too much to carry"

so i put it down

for periods, as it might be
this bag that i've had since a forever,
so bad, it carries all that i mistook for fortune and humor
i get to play pretend
have gotten quite good at that
so i know when you intend to leave
and that you will, cause you have to just leave

can't be bare cause they wouldn't care
so i go along with their desires
especially when they assume
oh you know me?
you love me and care for me?
you wouldn't bat an eye when you see what levels i've achieved
being ****** up
i feel like i don't deserve any of you or this

but i know when things aren't real!
can't even be delusional
i try to be confident
to pretend
but it all seeps out through somewhere
so many wounds
uncountable, invisible
do i wrap them or sew them shut to prove?

i don't know how to be complete
can't go on with this pit of sad
feel like i tend to infect
and **** me, please before i do
i can't infect you with myself too

"ignore this
i'm alright
trust me
speaking the truth
i cried
i'll be done and back to normal in a day"

i feel jealous of the rain
it collects over time, pours until nothing remains
the sky feels lighter
it shines a bit brighter
i just shower under it
would want to wring myself dry like it

i ought to sleep
but there's violet in my hands