Phantom drops of blood
Rolling down my leg
I feel it getting closer
To my knees and ankle true
What ever will I do
When the phantom reaches ground
And spreads it all around
That I am not unwell
But too far now to tell
It's not the pain I long for
But that phantom drop of blood
To make my legs sore
You do not sneak a peak
Without feeling that drop
Rolling down your body
Never will it ever stop
For the scars do not disintegrate
Only the blood

these stories we wear –

scars,
stretchmarks,
wrinkles,

are wrongly labelled
as imperfections.

but aren’t they such beautiful,
courageous signs
of how we have lived?

I slit my wrist to erase the pain.
you look at me and think I'm insane.
My eyes turn red, bleeding my tears,
and still you try to protect me from my worst fears.
Look at my scars, then you will see
why I can't seem to go around and fake happy,
yet you tell me you love me, that you'll forget,
for I'll soon be gone, and I'll be your greatest regret.
So let me die, broken and scarred,
I can't deal with life, it's getting far too hard.
Everything's gone wrong; it's not worth trying,
so leave me alone because I feel like I'm dying.
I don't want you to worry,
because my life is ending in a hurry.
I'll be fine and happy, you see,
for death is what I wished for and soon it will be.

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.

My poems, novels, and original music might be discovered by some alien civilization someday. Why do I express faith in aliens? My real-world people and other inhabitants of the planet are too self-absorbed.

I don't blame anyone. I can’t blame anyone. Who would I spare if I begin judging?

Strangers seem apathetic, but what have my people done for me? My former friends, colleagues and distant relatives all refuse to even read my free poems.

I have stopped expecting. What good would be a mechanical marriage be? If you can't admire my art and validate my efforts in life, why should I marry you?

If I were a rich kid to start with, I'd have hired a public relations manager. I'd pump millions to build my image. I'd have everyone read even my premium novels.

And then you'd have seen, I'd probably have been happy.

They have seen me smile a lot. I have a smiling face like my father. But is happiness all about smiling? Is it about killing my desire for validation and acceptance, for admiration and appreciation?

Why do I expect validation? Because they have invalidated my existence. They collectively considered me an inconsequential fool after I endured brain-damaging injuries in that coma-inducing, high-speed bike accident on May 7, 2010.

People are sadists. They are happy presuming negatives about me just because I survived that accident. I expected acceptance from her, but she was too self-absorbed for imparting such healing effects.

I shouldn't have agreed to get married to her. Why? She started avoiding me next day onwards. It's not like her work kept her busy. She had all the time for Instagram Reels. When I objected, she misbehaved further.

She called my art outdated. The injuries have healed almost completely. However, I can’t heal from the misgivings. And not just because of her. Even my colleagues, friends and relatives have invalidated my efforts to rise from the depths of depression.

They cited their busyness whenever I requested them to read my premium novels, or even experience my free poetry, or listen to my free music.

From her I expected validation and empathy, understanding and acceptance. But all she gave me was indifference and apathy. She should've understood my situation after more than a decade of social boycott I have faced due to my temporarily disabled state. And she's doing her course in special education, where teachers ought to inculcate the virtues of empathy and kindness. She didn't have any of it. She just reminded me of the apathetic society.

The society had suggested my parents to help me establish a roadside candy stall because they thought (or rather hoped) that I may never get back to normal life after such a major road accident. Their small minds made them presume that similar to Bollywood movies, I'd never completely return to a normal life. They even gave me the nickname of Ghajini after figuring out that I have the diagnosis of short-term memory loss.

I not only completed my pending B.Tech., but I also attained a postgraduate M.Tech. in Animal Biotechnology. They still judged me negatively. During the PhD course, they set up impediments. The obstacles they presented me with were both moral and systemic. I understood that they were not educated enough to help such special cases as me.

I'm professionally successful, and I have ample investments too. But I dearly required the world to read my novels and poems, and even listen to my free music back at that time. It'd validate my existence. However, now I figure out that I’m not ever going to be validated by anyone.

Now I feel hopeless about the future of the human society. For more than 15 years, I've been experiencing such ignorance. They didn't read even the novels I gifted to them, the thankless people.

I'm sorry to say, the society has disappointed me. They refused to give me an opportunity to prove that my worth is beyond the physical limitations after the cataclysmic accident.

Now I'm creating a dystopian future by writing predictive fiction. In my 2021-novel titled "Swansong: A Tribute?" I had accurately predicted the ongoing hostilities between Bhaarat and Pakistan.

Next, in the same novel, I predicted a China-centric World War in near future. They don't pay attention to my words. But I have a knack for predicting things.

Why should anyone pay attention to my words? Who am I?
I'm just a lucky survivor.

Impatient fear— drawn like breath toward a love-sickness
too familiar; where even longing feels rehearsed.
Still, we wait. Too patient, perhaps, for the One who
might finally make us two.

But how many hearts have crowded this same dream?
How many lips have whispered their forever's into ears already
echoing with empty promises? Love, the great alien—always
arriving in disguise during first encounters, glimmering strange
and radiant, only to rot sweetly in the mouth after the kiss turns
to memory.

We taste the ache, to call it devotion...
We call the wound a lesson.

But what of those—the occasional monsters; who no longer
apologize for the shape of their hunger, who wear their
shadows like a second skin, not in shame, but in acceptance?
And what of the world, when two such creatures find each other?
When neither runs, neither flinches—when their broken pieces
match like puzzle scars?

Do we call it love then, or chaos? Do we fear what is born from
the ashes of their embrace— or envy it? Because when two
monsters fall in love, they do not tame each other. They make
a home of their fire. And the world, remains forever obsessed
with perfect edges, that it will never understand—how beautiful
the burn can be.

Only then, do you and I finally feel free.