2010
learned to swim in an ocean filled with
jellyfish that didn’t sting,
seashells,
and more hands than i needed to hold
in a party that of more than four,
our brand new family strung together with salt water.
this time, everything is for the last time.

2011
this
is the
first ever time
my decisions are the
children of orphaned thoughts.
they swing across canyons of hope
attached to no rope.
reality is a maze with no roadmap.

2012
there is so much lesser now, than there used to be,
there is also so much more now, than there used to be.
somewhere nestled inbetween is satisfaction.

2013
today, my heart joined the gym.
the mission? twenty seconds of bravery.

2014
mission accomplished.
twenty minutes of bravery,
here i come.

2015
there was a time before.
there will be a time after.
from today, there is no going back.

2016
the trek has led to
an obstacle course.
let the games begin.

thrice already bungee jumped / said with much pride,
but haven't yet learnt
to not carry knots of tension in my shoulders
to not clench my teeth together in terror
to not dig trails of red into my palms
with chewed down nails
and not trap stale air in my lungs until they nearly explode
let them turn the colour of rotting grapes as
every last molecule of oxygen leaks from my nose

when all I want is for my muscles to let loose
let go
for my feet to stop clawing (desperately and at the very last second)
to every ledge and corner
because these hands
and these lungs,
these thighs,
these eyes
and this heart
wants
to go
away -

far, far away, like that land from the fairytale
my mother read to me at night
to send me away
(just like Hansel and Gretel's mother did
when her bones got leaner
like my mother's is getting, now)
into a land she could only send me to -
never follow.

my letting go was the paradox
of sunshine on a snowy mountain,
a mother's lies to her children -
"I'm okay",
"It doesn't matter", -
my letting go
let go
only to slink back between the sheets
and hold you close.
my letting go
wears love in its eyes
stitches in hope from the sky
and prays for what was let gone
to come back;
else, you were never mine to begin with
but i, i am now yours,
(and only yours)
until the very end.

who cares*
how brightly
the sun shines?
all I need
is to be
enveloped
by the depth of
the elusive
night.

and somewhere in-between
i'm okay and it's fine
i lost myself.

it hurts to write down
all the words i feel.
memory is a blade,
slashing through the numbed skin;
i bleed in thoughts.

pinecones are
childhood summers spent tripping over the syllables of dense forests
folded somewhere between real world Europe and my very real imagination,
nestled against each other on bookshelves made of pinewood -
a childhood game of hide and go seek pressed in photo albums
where a version of me lived;
a version of me who delighted my mother and father,
a version who to me remains a stranger -
smiling gap toothed, shoes in snow boots,
sticky fingers pressing pine cones against her nose -

the present, a fragrance;
the future, a rolling pine forest.

pinecones are what the years between 17 and 19 felt like
in perennial wanderlust,
soul spliced into shards trying to make sense of
everything I felt and everything I thought;
everything I needed and everything I still want.
pine cones perfume the edges of a dream
dipped in the streams and stories of far-off lands,
pine cones are the crutches of a crippled mind
still building a new home for itself
in the basements of other people’s hearts.

pinecones are
platforms which I danced from,
leaping limber, slaying fear, the win always near;
pine cones are a reminder that while
a man can break his shoulder trying to tear one from the tree,
the true mark of bravery lies in how well you can break free.

pine cones are
the skeletons upon which hang the colourless drapes of my future
before stepping into galactic puddles that splash colour
all over every unmade plan,
memories’ strands shining technicolour through translucent skin -
the touch of your fingers no longer feel like sins.

pine cones are young green and supple,
seeds of love lust and chance encounters
that blaze into fiery shades of yellows and oranges,
every colour turning a tinge darker, a daily time marker;
pine cones are what remain, dark and unyielding
after a lifecycle of fires starting
and dying
within the embers of consciousness.

we’re the cool girls of this generation,
the ones with the words ‘i .cannot. give. a. ****’
slashed across us in bold red,
the little lies we tell ourselves to go to bed,
instead of spending midnight hours strung on the edge
unable to seek behind or storm ahead.

the ones who fell asleep
to the sound of constant yelling, artillery shelling; bitter bullets exploding
into ugly bruises splattered across still skinny limbs,
shifting stories of anger and frustration, guilt and regret
expressed across inches of innocent skin;
the ones whose clothes were just a little bit frayed on the edges
the wear and tear of secret battles
fought behind sunset alleys,
behind midnight tea stalls
or on bright Sunday afternoons
at the bus stand,
desperately fighting hungry eyes and hungrier hands.

we’re the cool girls of this generation -
the ones with the
red tips red lips
red ribs red wrists.

we’re the cool girls of this generation -
the ones that house boys in our hearts and
smoke in our lungs,
the ones who spend way too much time inside their own head,
asking a hundred questions before every step in this game of wizarding chess that
never seems to slow down -

we’re the ones that can be found
wandering insomniac across sulphur-sodden streets,
wisps of distant wishes
settling into the foggy vestiges
of a high mind longing to soar higher.

we’re the cool girls of this generation
the one that are still allowed just the right rationing of
action emotion expression complication communication
while wearing a constant resting not-so-***** face
head sorting information in a frenzied daze,
heart swinging between your fingers and a suitcase -

the ones with one foot in the present and
other parts traversing through parallel dimensions,
searching for a back up plan if your hearts refuse to allow us home;
the ones whose mouths became graveyards
for all the words that went unsaid,
for all the words to which we came undone,
for all times your eyes asked us questions that we shunned

we’re the cool girls of this generation -
the ones that belong to roads unknown and bodies untouched,
the ones that find stories in shipwrecked planks
that ride stormy oceans only to find homes
or perhaps even build them -
amidst the crumbling sand castles on the sea shore.

because we’re the cool girls of this generation -
the ones with the
*red tips red lips
red ribs red wrists.

i only needed this cloud of worries to ascend -
then, it got so easy
**to tell it all to you.

trapped between
what I see
and
what I want to see,
I blink.

*and there you stand.

meandering,*
i'm the lightweight
(see through) ghost light
shining through the crevices of
the coloured rays.

"Can w-"
you sewed my lips shut with
a piercing glare and
from then on,
i bled in
words.

and every time
you break my heart,
i learn to bleed
in *prettier patterns.

the rush of the illicit
while exhilarating.
is temporary.

i like how
the corners of your lips twist upwards
when your eyes settle on my bare thighs
peeking through torn jeans.
one look
two smiles
three words;
i come undone.

my hands would like to thank your hands
for the time we were drunk out of our minds
but your hands knew enough
to hold, not grab
to hold, not push
to hold,
and hold on.

my hands would like to thank your hands
for being constants, not variables.
for having a thermostat so perfect,
holding hands is like entering
a fire-warmed cabin
after a snowstorm -
and you’re the only light around for miles.

but most importantly,
my hands
would like to thank your hands
for keeping other things from my hands;
things that shouldn’t be found in hands,
like the last cigarette
or a sharp pointy object -

and the last time
it was desperation that
got the better of me;

and not your hands.

worn hands
stained red from dead
remnants of animals;
old wife still finds
love there.

and maybe we spend
our entire lives
running away from
our greatest fears
*only to have them consume us in the end.

of course* i want to die
i think of it every
second every minute every hour.

and now you've all begun to
ask questions,
whisper behind my back, she
looks dead;
has the lord of the underworld staked
his claim over
me *already?

i have questions to ask to
those who believe they have
every right to leave trails of
mass destruction blossoming
(like the fresh blood of a flesh wound)
as they trod across a landscape
of broken hearts -
tell me, does it delight you
to watch an entire generation
go down in flames?

when i was young,
i only lived
between the pages of a book
between the words of a sentence
between Privet Drive and Baker Street
between bookstores and libraries
where I did not have to speak
to make friends;
where I made friends
who would not leave,
where I could leave
and return to see
that nothing had changed;
nothing, except me,
but only a little.

now that i’m older
i’ve been twice
to the other side and back;
i think i’d also like to live
between time zones and skylines
between silken sheets on starry nights
between your fingers and your eyes,
where conversations are passports
to other worlds in
in other hearts beating
in other bodies;

if only for just a little.

i write this
|for you,
for me|
but really
i write this
about you,
from me.

we do not have to beg and plead
to meet with our Gods in mosques and temples.
holy isn’t the space between stone pillars and walls -
holy is the absolute power of our ***,
holy is the space between our legs.
we do not have to hide and disguise
the pain of a hundred muscles writhing and twisting
and sneak into warm kitchens to feed cold stomachs
after hours;
a pounding heartbeat
marking every second stolen to steal food
from a home that is just as rightfully ours.

we do not have an obligation to remain
a glassy lake that lies still throughout the storm,
pleasing every passerby with a picture of themselves;
the narcissists and egotists can go straight to hell.
we do not have to cut our lips on our teeth
by setting our default response to a ‘yes’
when every cell in our bodies unite to protest.

we do not have to pretend to smile at the
uninvited embraces of unwelcome hands and eyes.

because no holy man in a holy temple that exiles women
deserves to rub his filthy hands over the valleys and mountains
of goddesses cast in stone,
and no tradition can lead to the starvation
of a woman who has to bleed if she is to live.
lakes do not stay serene in a storm, they do not surrender;
they bend over backwards and swallow the horror.

you see?
we do not
we absolutely do not
have to
need to
or be forced to
do anything at all -
unless we
really, really
want to.

'So what do you want to do?'
I'd tell you that I, friend, want to do
whatever it is that you want to do
but can I be honest for a change?
I want to take the longest hottest coldest shower
in a bathtub where I can drown myself
And when I'm done rubbing my skin raw;
I want to break everything that I've ever loved
the way everything I've ever loved has broken me
(into so many pieces that I can't quite find myself anymore)
and then
I want to cry like the world is coming to a ******* end
because my world really is
I want to mourn the loss of my past and the decay of my present
cry waterfalls for all the pain I've been damming up inside of me
turn my arms into a canvas of red
each slash a reminder of the
many losses
many mistakes
many insecurities
that I can't seem to absolve myself of
and when I am finally done with all of that...
I want to be no more.

see?
all you need to undo
me,
is one word;
you.

So
will I
ever get to
be with you in
the bright sunlight, or is
The idea of you and me a concept -
Two people who are only
allowed to be with
each other in
the dark
*night?