There are oceans in my body,
In your eyes,
And between us.
I have walked on water before and drowned.
My holy arms and legs said names and wrapped men as presents that they didn't deserve to be.
I am prone to wishful thinking
And my rapidly closing eyes
Are already building sandcastles.
Tear them down.
Tear them down.
Like you wore and tore me down.
Set me on fire and end me.
Nothing and too much are two extremes I have lived in.
Now bridge them and let me die.
What if we said that we didn't have to fall to our knees to get our way?
What if we said that we didn't have to bend ourselves backwards for anyone but our own dreams? Or maybe not even then?
What if we could sprout wings and fly to anywhere we wanted to without asking for permission?
What if I could decide my own fate, my own destiny, my own consequences, my own future, my own life, my own world and never have to worry what they whispered about us?
So many nights have been spent by writers trying to describe their loneliness as a choice when we could only pick our pens up to feel less lonely.
We may never find an audience for the words we say to ourselves, but we'll never run out. We'll still keep talking in the hope that someone will tell us that our words are the ones they needed to explain their loneliness too.
We're not writing to express; not always. Sometimes, we write to find pieces of ourselves outside us.
There are days that my heart can't take how much pain women are having to carry in their hearts all the **** time. We hold the scars close, digging at them behind closed doors and discussing it in hushed tones.
Our homes are not ours. They're a minefield of memories we'd rather bury with our own walking carcasses.
Then maybe, we'll set ourselves on fire in the hope that maybe, just maybe, we'll be respected in death like Sati.
And then they'll say, "What a brave life she led!"
Or maybe something to the effect of, "Maybe we should have heard her screaming before she even walked into the pyre."
I'm clutching at straws
I'm hanging off ledges,
Parkouring my way down.
They were lying about the spirals.
In directions I didn't know existed.
There's my limb
And there goes my mind.
But my eyes are shut.
My faith is blind.
And I'm losing touch with home base.
Auto pilot, I run no vehicle.
Just crash and burn.
Is this real?
Is this just in my head?
Why am I only listening to the voices in my head?
I am not in a dark place.
The room in my head is well-lit and well-connected to the every fiber of my being
Where every thought becomes pain in my body.
I watch myself bleed till I'm grey but covered in shades of red.
I count the shades to imagine a rainbow of all the bloodstains.
The riot of colours match the riot of voices inside my head
Till they both consume me.
I'm not sinking.
I'll never sink.
But, I'll keep falling.
Are we looking for endings?
Or just a means to an end?
We're so used to the idea of stories not ending unless they end happily
that we must push,
bolt the door,
and plaster smiles on our faces till we convince ourselves we're finally okay.
What about unanswered questions we both have?
I turn to the pages of my diary to ask why you left.
To ask why you didn't try to stop me from leaving.
To ask if you ever cared or if you feel the same sense of relief that I feel now that you're gone.
What would be the last frame of this movie anyway?
Are we smiling as we walk our own ways?
Is one of us left crying at the table we shared drinks and curses at?
Are we going to be dragged kicking, screaming to our ends by our own egos?
Or will this end softly in silence?
Will a last kiss be appropriate?
Will a last time running my hands over a real, unpixelated body be enough?
There are more open doors now than ever before.
But, yours is the only one I want to close.