#spilledwords
मैं खुद को किनारे पर ले आता हूँ,
फिर न जाने क्यों
अपने आप को समुंदर की गहराइयों में पाता हूँ।
टूट जाता हूँ अक्सर,
जब लहरों से
दोबारा जकड़ लिया जाता हूँ।
कोशिश कितनी भी करूँ
किनारे पर आने की,
वो लहरें फिर से
मुझे अपने साथ
खींच ले जाती हैं।
देखता हूँ खुद को,
तो फिर
मैं अपने आप को
दोबारा समुंदर की गहराइयों में पाता हूँ।
कभी-कभी थक जाता हूँ,
किनारे पर नहीं आना चाहता हूँ मैं।
समझ आता है—
किनारा सुंदर है,
पर अपनी खामियों के साथ ही
लहरों में बहता रहना चाहता हूँ मैं।
जिस सुकून में मैं जीना चाहता हूँ,
वो मुझे किनारे पर भी न मिले—
इसी डर के साए में
मैं फिर से
लहरों में उलझता चला जाता हूँ।
May 18
May 18, 2026 at 9:23 PM UTC
If there is pain in love, I'm ready to feel that pain.
I'm ready to heal you in your long and hectic days.
Whenever you feel frustrated or have a graceful day, I just want to be right next to you in your every phase.
I'll wait till you fly, until I die
Jan 27, 2025
Jan 27, 2025 at 11:03 AM UTC
To die by your side,
The same bullet that pierces our heads,
Our last touch, the final brush of skin,
As shadows blend where light grows thin.
Jan 20, 2025
Jan 20, 2025 at 2:33 PM UTC
I wait for her gaze to meet with mine,
Lost in the stare, I cross the line.
Her eyes, like forests, draw me in,
Her smile, a trap I can’t escape within.
The words I’d speak stay locked away,
You’re far too distant for me to say.
I can't be yours, the fear is strong,
Silence keeps me where I belong.
Jan 17, 2025
Jan 17, 2025 at 1:15 PM UTC
Sometimes you're a footnote.
Others can refer to.
Other times you're lucky enough.
To be a whole entire chapter.
Some people go.
So they turn into a page.
As they wonder why.
They're not mentioned,
Again by name.
Other people's stories.
Will stay estranged from you.
While others will weave,
Their way into your world.
We are all just living stories.
Wanting to be heard.
Needing to be seen.
Trying to find a home.
Among the margins.
Of life.
We are all just stories.
With something to say.
That we are here.
Even if it was just,
For a chapter or two.
We all become stories.
At the end of the day.
Oct 25, 2024
Oct 25, 2024 at 7:13 PM UTC
the butterflies and their dusted wings — they're sore under my tongue. i inherited the sting of my mother's wounds — her sunday madness and propensity for hurting. but not quite her bravery. not quite her capacity to carry such wounding weights. i am a washed-out silhouette. i cower, with lips blood-red from a tourmaline graze. i shake, i buckle, i drown, and sink. how then, do i say my words without turning them into a gospel made for wasteaways? how do i become half a woman she ever was? how do i live with myself?
long are these cold, clear nights of sobriety and awareness. long are these cold, oppressive seconds. i pull this dilapidated skin — wrap it all over me, resembling an unclaimed body in a morgue. solace exists, but solely outside these walls.
Aug 31, 2021
Aug 31, 2021 at 12:53 AM UTC
i carry around bones from a dug up grave. i hold onto the thorns of burial flowers. i trip on the words scattered from my own séance. pray tell, where do i lay these down to rest, if not inside me?
i seal them in the dark. i seal them shut.
Aug 17, 2021
Aug 17, 2021 at 1:54 AM UTC
i am quiet as
an iridescent, swan paperweight,
sitting and melting on sadness —
on sheets and sheets of it.
maybe this entire time,
i have been on the edge,
lying like a sand angel
and wading through dead buttercups.
i write a premonition
and call it a poem.
if these walls could speak,
they would call me a resident.
an outsider.
a hostage victim.
a sorry sight.
a paperweight sitting
in the middle of misery.
i am quiet as
an iridescent, swan paperweight,
sitting and melting on sadness —
on sheets and sheets of it;
oh, how i long
to fall and break
into a thousand pieces —
one, just small enough
to be invisible
to slip away
and have
no trace of pervasive sadness —
it glistens in casual,
technicolored mockery.
and i am quiet —
oh, so quiet.
oh, how i long
to fall and break.
Apr 17, 2021
Apr 17, 2021 at 3:25 AM UTC
maybe some types of chaos do not have to make sense or unveil some semblance of an epiphany. some types of chaos, you just have to feel. some types of chaos, you just have to lie through.
Mar 20, 2021
Mar 20, 2021 at 9:54 AM UTC
i.
find me
shedding away layers of skin
like leaves — like cracking tree barks
until i am a cold corpse preserved in the winter.
until i am what nature calls dead.
so long each restless movement,
so long, each ugly mark
so long, each metaphor stitched together
into a sorry imitation of poetry.
ii.
find me
shedding away layers of skin
a until i am a hundred sorrows thinner,
— a thousand sighs lighter:
a sorry imitation of a chrysalis breaking
and out emerges an anomaly
aching down to its very bones,
so long, each fleeing breath
so long, each exit wound.
iii.
find me
laying down this weary skin,
this dainty roadside silhouette
these trembling, purple veins.
as if an act of making amends.
maybe not.
these lines are
escape routes stitched together
into a sorry imitation of poetry —
maybe my entire life has been that way —
a sorry imitation of poetry.
a sorry imitation of sanity.
so long.
iv.
don't find me.
so long.
Mar 20, 2021
Mar 20, 2021 at 9:20 AM UTC
rip my chest the way you would an ugly sight of flowers. take everything away. i have no need for this much aching. i have no need for this much consuming anguish — this much self-violence barely restrained by my ribs. rip my chest and leave me empty of breaths and prayers for saints who don't know my name. leave me clean, and numb, and brand new — without memory and without any trace of all agony i ever kept between the lines of my poems. this isn't one — this isn't one anymore.
rip my chest and take everything away. rip my chest, i beg you, and take away all of my violence. take away all of my pain. take away all that i ever was, now just hurting — now, just lying around in waste.
rip my chest and take away all that i am.
rip my chest.
leave nothing behind
Mar 10, 2021
Mar 10, 2021 at 2:56 AM UTC
i can still feel it — the ghostly echo of storm clouds it in my throat, now dry and emptied of the softest sighs. they all had fallen on my flower-bed skin, pristine as the petals that once were. or so i pretend. i can still feel it in my throat: the storm, looming. the calm drowning itself, and its haunting, beckoning call to which my feet slowly walk.
some days, it's just you and the uncharted depths of your own skin.
some days, you can bother with poems — some days, you can only drown.
Feb 26, 2021
Feb 26, 2021 at 8:51 PM UTC
no i am not kind, i will pull your heart out of your chest — stain it with fleeting moments of softness before running it over with my train-wreck hands. i will pick you wild roses — they all die in my palms; maybe so will this love. i will kiss you and hold you, as we slow-dance our way to disaster; all we can do is sigh and crumble like greek ruins dying in a modern city. is it so bad, then, loving you with the kind of love that breaks and terrifies, and leaves you hurting and burning and wanting more? is this so bad, then, when it's the only way i've ever loved, and the only way i've ever known?
Feb 15, 2021
Feb 15, 2021 at 10:25 PM UTC
How much more breaking do I have to do until my heart numbs itself? I am sick of this routine — my chest sewing itself just to be ripped apart once more. I wish I can leave it be — an open wound for the flies. And yet, how many more wounds are there until there is no healing scar left to tear? I am sick of this routine. Tonight, I wish my heart would just tear itself into a handful of benumbed pieces. And tomorrow would stare at me — an aftermath of a storm. A heaving curiosity. A girl, lying in pieces and with no heart left to break.
Jan 30, 2021
Jan 30, 2021 at 10:40 PM UTC
In all ways, I have lined up my scars and written them insincere apologies; each word — a mockery and a transgression carelessly thrown in the night. I have allowed dread to settle deeply between my collar bones: an arrow buried between antlers until it unsettles and chokes. I have sewn sadness into my skin, like a dainty, silk sundress; worn it to church and to the funeral mass of a little girl I had to **** She'll never know how much I mourned her, how on some nights, I still do. In all ways, I have looked at my skin, my fingers, and calves, and tailbone and saw a body that's never known gentleness or summertime souls or the gentle falling of the rain.
So after all of that, how, then, can I hold my heart now, without ever breaking it?
Tell me — how long can I hold my heart without ever breaking it?
Jan 26, 2021
Jan 26, 2021 at 10:35 PM UTC
such softness i covet compulsively, and yet all i can do is watch myself dig a mass grave for the white tulips i ripped apart. watch myself crumble like weathered obsidians. watch myself unbottle self-addressed apologies, and choke on all the softness i never had —
until all there is is my skin, drenched in ghostly disquiet.
until all there is is an ugly sight of breaths, hoarded as they fall.
until all there is is just breaking.
and until all there is,
is me.
Jan 24, 2021
Jan 24, 2021 at 6:35 AM UTC
to kiss you senseless until i am a seaglass buried deep inside your skin. to lick salt off your palms with paper-cut lips, until each breath has gone haywire. to quietly sigh your name until it baptizes my heathen tongue. oh, the wars i would start; the wars i would end — darling, there is something soothing about all the violent ways i can love you.
Jan 7, 2021
Jan 7, 2021 at 4:05 AM UTC
I find myself chasing highs only to jump from them. But no, I am no comet. I am just a girl — all sunset eyes and gasoline. All dust grain and stale cigarettes. Shaky lips and broken mugs. Broken matches. Scissors running over my skin. Is it so bad then — wishing for my bones to finally break this time?
I find myself chasing highs only to jump from them, so save my poems and all my tales. Save me the apologies I cannot say. I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry.
"It's not enough."
"No, it's not. It's okay."
Save me the apologies I cannot say.
And once more, I find myself chasing highs only to jump from them. And this time, darling, there is no way to survive the fall.
Dec 26, 2020
Dec 26, 2020 at 2:12 AM UTC
My hands still remember the quiet aching of these wounds — too deep and wide for stitches and shaky hands. And so, I never learned to unpack my grief. It still is in a suitcase with December dusks and dreary summers — shut in secret library walls. I never learned to unpack my grief because I'm terrified that when I do, it'll be way too messy to place it back where it belongs.
Some things, we never tell ourselves out loud.
Dec 24, 2020
Dec 24, 2020 at 2:19 AM UTC
i would dip kisses on your freckled back, as though it were an arched door of a baroque cathedral. i would strain my arms cradling the frailty of your sadness. i would weave to my lips your whispers, made of cold and lonely december rust. i would dust my bones and flesh, and i would lie there next to you — a clean slate, in silence and awe and uninhibited longing. my love, we could stay like this for a while.
the streetlights flicker and the sunset blurs. but they know —
my heart has always been yours to break.
Dec 1, 2020
Dec 1, 2020 at 12:39 AM UTC
tw
i. october
i am a house burning down
and if i cannot make it out of this body,
at least, let me knit lilacs on my skin
where my wounds are in their softest —
where they hurt the most.
it is easy to look at a girl
and call her trembling poetry.
it is easy to look at a girl
and not see an arsonist.
it is easy to read a poem
and not see the disconnect.
ii. november
i am a boneyard of butterflies —
and these roads know too well the way
a grass blade wounds my feet.
i remember their faint way of hurting —
oh how it had dwindled into normalcy.
and yet maybe when you play numb long enough,
everything slowly does.
iii. december
i remember reading epitaphs as a kid;
it is eighteen years too late
for a half-meant apology
and soon enough,
when the woodsmoke lifts, you'll see
wisterias tying the noose,
swinging lovingly from these corpse-cold fingers.
i remember writing epitaphs.
each word — a love child my tombstone never knew.
iv. january
say my farewells to summer, i cannot wait.
soon, someone will walk me slowly to a river —
all pressed tux and a lace wedding dress
and hold my head down,
gently, softly,
until each tiny breath has escaped
this mad house.
this boneyard.
this mouth.
i do.
i do.
i do.
fin.
Nov 28, 2020
Nov 28, 2020 at 5:17 AM UTC
i.
the scent of sorrow, hanging in the air
rotting away what's left of this skin.
wrists — sewn shut
are wrists undone:
the morbidity of it all pervades —
this i confess.
ii.
look not. turn not, for
each careful stare, each scornful gaze
has me falling back into darkness;
maybe eurydice has found comfort in its arms.
maybe so have i.
maybe this is how it's always meant to end.
iii.
lately, sunsets no longer melt
into an afterglow —
they just turn into the night.
at least it dims
the futility of drawing each shallow breath
from places filled with smoke and dust;
there used to be something there:
this, i confess.
this, i remember.
there used to be something there.
there used to be something h e r e.
— fray // november, must you be so cruel to my trembling hands left with no heart to break?
Nov 22, 2020
Nov 22, 2020 at 6:04 AM UTC
what good is a poem under a scab —
i keep on peeling and peeling, asking
is there more to this skin
marred by my restless fingerprints —
they've all been but subtle.
what good is a poem under a scab —
it still is a wound
over which rusty dahlias mourn and spread
and maybe if i dig my fingers deep enough,
i will find an exit —
all ****
all dust.
all quiet aching.
still, it's an escape.
and what good is a girl under a scab?
some of them are made to run —
to fashion wings and fly.
so darling, seal your wings all you want
all poetry and beeswax
and prayers to the gods
who do not speak your name,
and still, the sun would only watch you fall
as the sea spray worships
your scabbing skin.
all sad things belong to the sea
and maybe that is what you wanted.
maybe that is what you wanted after all.
— fray narte
Nov 21, 2020
Nov 21, 2020 at 7:06 AM UTC
i had missed too many sunsets hurting in silence. to this day, the sky is in a graying shade of blue. to this day, it is mournful and decaying over me — or inside me, i do not know. i had lost count of the months i shunned the sunsets and headed straight — disgracefully, to the arms of the dusk. besides, falling apart looked harsher, and messier, and more vivid in the light. and so i had missed too many sunsets; this too, is becoming a wound.
i wish i were kinder to myself.
i wish i could forgive myself.
Nov 8, 2020
Nov 8, 2020 at 4:37 AM UTC
A bone in my collar curls up,
your scent tickles my skin.
Catching up with puzzled eyes,
I try to unravel this time,
this moment,
this love that sends me chills.
Why do I smell you here?
In my basement?
I barely heard you unlock.
Sweat trickles down in confusion,
disclosing the hard-held anxiety.
I am surprised,
startled at how weak the air could get.
Almost failing to help me breathe.
I leave my corner,
swaying feebly to the restricted music in my head.
Tapping and twirling into a gamble,
into a bet to lose my sanity.
I let you play me.
Let your scent grow on me.
Falling lightly into your notes,
I almost dare you to love me,
to love me like I am a home.
Nov 4, 2020
Nov 4, 2020 at 3:05 AM UTC