#littleletterpoetry
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.
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 7:56 AM UTC
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.
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 12:55 AM UTC
worn hands
stained red from dead
remnants of animals;
old wife still finds
love there.
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 8:15 AM UTC
if there is an experiment to determine ways
of permanently doing away
with this everyday weight that is
depression,
i volunteer.
take me first.
take me first
before i send myself away.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 5:25 AM UTC
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.
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 11:21 AM UTC
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.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 9:36 AM UTC
dear twenty-year old me,
the storm in your head will settle and
the debris will remain down for a few minutes longer this time.
*(and then you'll learn to hold down fortresses in the
hurricanes, instead of being the ragdoll that
the torrents play tag with)*.
dear twenty-year old me,
there will be a moment when no amount of
poisonous smog clutching on the every molecule of breathable air
will be enough to block the clarity of the sun, the moon,
*even the little stars that seemingly do nothing but give you a carpet
of diamonds to cut your feet on.*
dear twenty-year old me,
this is a test. this is a phase. if life has taught me
anything, it is this -
it
always
goes
on.
so should you.
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 5:10 AM UTC
and she wrote poetry
listening to the moonbeams crash at her feet
while the stars exploded and died before her eyes.
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 4:35 AM UTC
my scars are
sneaky storytellers.
your eyes can
speak secrets.
our stories are but
fireflies that live
and die
in the dark.
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 8:22 AM UTC
i lost it
to the mountains, that night when
the fireplace consumed log after log
*throwing orange red and yellow
across the underground walls*, and
the river rushed above us
winter wonderland;
where three feet beds of snow
kiss jagged glacier lips and
bleed rivers.
i lost myself
that night, with you
(to you)
in the mountains.
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 4:19 AM UTC
never will it cease to amaze me
how little it takes to spark
so all-consuming a flame.
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 2:46 AM UTC
i like writing you poetry -
at 2 am, night lights glowing through
rain streaked windows, i listen to the city
and wish you'd listen to me.
i like writing you poetry -
angsty little love notes where
every word betrays the cool countenance
i otherwise wear on my face when
we're warring with our words but
teasing with our tongues.
i like writing you poetry -
it's where i can tell you the stories
that belong to the dead of the night
and the dead of my heart.
i like writing you poetry -
because it's the only way
i can tell you that i love you
without you ever having to know.
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 4:01 AM UTC
every day, speak a little less
reduce the number of words you say from half to
ten less, and then none at all.
Don't forget to be soft.
Kiss your mountaintop goodbye for
one last sunrise and descend
into the night
where it's quiet
like you should be.
one by one, pull back towards yourself
the orbs of energy you've left
bouncing around you in the
atmosphere.
be their chalice
one last time
and watch them burn out.
and when you're reduced to
dying ashes and deathly whispers
a strong voice will suddenly falter
and they wonder -
didn't we once know a ... ?
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 8:16 AM UTC
my sadness is tired of being sad,
it doesn't know happy;
it wants to go to sleep
and never wake up -
(like me).
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 8:55 AM UTC
broken words and wilting bodies,
that's us, a messy generation of
glassy eyes and bulletproof souls.
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 9:55 AM UTC
our sick minds, they get no sympathy.
you can get caught in the civil war
your mind wages against itself and
emerge victorious night after night,
who cares, no one's looking,
you're not supposed to show off.
but cry for three days straight
and *everybody loses their ****
i don't want to have this sick mind,
i didn't ask for this sick life,
i'd rather take it all and sell it
to the devil.
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 5:40 AM UTC
and despite the hazy monsoon
in my eyes;
i plough on,
trying to write.
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 9:32 AM UTC
of childhood vice
of ice and spice
of whisky dreams
fermented schemes
but in the days of lore
I'd promised me
no liquor no powder,
no smoke-paper-and-wool
i'd lose myself to dreams weaved from words
but lately all the colour in my skull comes from drugs
because when i went from sweet sixteen
to a sour twenty one
all i did every day of the month of the year
*to **** you all off*,
every single promise,
one by one i killed you,
darlings.
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 1:22 PM UTC
it hurts to write down
all the words i feel.
memory is a blade,
slashing through the numbed skin;
i bleed in thoughts.
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 10:45 AM UTC
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?
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 10:25 AM UTC
your musky metallic tang
on my bittersweet tongue,
(i'm thirsty);
oh honey,
let's meet.
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 3:27 AM UTC
the rush of the illicit
while exhilarating.
is temporary.
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 6:25 AM UTC
freedom, you wild thing
coursing through my bleeding veins
pulling things apart.
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 5:37 PM UTC