A Liar’s Ramblings.

You ask me who I am. My mind screams the word at me, daring me to let it spill from my lips. A four letter word: liar.
Because that is who I am.
Because that is what I start and end every day with. Lies repeated to myself, sometimes out loud, sometimes just in my mind.
A three word lie, over and over, with each beat of my heart.

I am okay. I am okay. I am okay.

But-
NO. NO. NO.
My mind screams back at me.
That’s a white lie. Sometimes I am not.

Many times.

Not during the day, never during the day. The days are safe- except for golden sunlight, it reminds me of you.
But I don’t go out at all these days, and remind is such a funny word. I don’t even know you.
I don’t even know if you exist.

And the nights. The nights. The nights.

You are my sunshine. But the stars are cold, the moon is cold.
The chill has sunk into my soul.
Where are you, my sunshine?
Will you please come to me?

Why won’t you come to me? I even write you letters, so many of them. They don’t fit in the dusty space under my bed anymore.

Many people are whole, even on their own.
I am not. I was never made to be.
I am waiting. I’ll be waiting for ever.
Please, listen to my pleas for once.

I don’t want to drown here anymore. Pull me out and let me breathe. You’re the only one who can.

So you ask me who I am. I do not know.
But I can tell you just what I am- incomplete.

I Should’ve Known Better.

I swore on the grave of all the dreams I had abandoned, I wouldn’t let you get to me. I swore on the sun and I swore on the moon, and I swore on the love that made them chase each other across the heavens- the sadness would never find a home in my ribs again. I promised myself that I would wait for you, I’d wait for as long as I had to because I knew, I knew you were coming and I promised myself I wouldn’t doubt you.

But the sadness is here again now, breaking down my door, and you are not. And I’m left sitting here in resignation, wondering if you ever even really existed, if you weren’t just a figment of my desperation, I’m left sitting here counting down the ticks and tocks of this old dusty clock until the sadness floods in to smother me; I’m left sitting here craving the bitter taste of tobacco and death again, craving the feeling of vengeful pleasure that came with the tar smoke corrupting my lungs with every inhale and every cough; I am left sitting here, craving my own end, and thinking ‘God, I should’ve known better than to let a dream wreck me like this. I should’ve fucking known better.’

 

Of Nostalgia And The Night Sky.

Even if everything else falls apart, the moon will still be exceptionally beautiful on dark nights. The stars will still glimmer, teasing you, reminding you of the naive dreams you once had to capture the night sky into a glass jar to keep by your bed side- dreams that you have long since labelled ‘impossible’ and discarded. The night will bring with it nostalgia and memories you cannot escape from, memories of the boy who smelt like lemons and winter, frosty to the touch, or the girl with autumn leaves in her hair whose dark eyes showed you light the sun never could. Try all you might, squeezing your eyes close so tightly you see galaxies on the inside of your lids, but you will not be able to rid your mind of images of the people who gave you their all, putting their hearts in the palms of your hands, only to have you throw them all away ruthlessly. It’ll come back to haunt you now, how you broke them into a million pieces, but you’ll still feel no regret, you’ll feel no pain.
So climb onto the roof with your pack of cigarettes and a lighter, and try to smoke away the emptiness in vain, because the worst is yet to come.

Feelings and Colors: Pt. 1

5 stages of grief.

1. I paint the brightest shade of orange all over my lids with messy strokes and multiple coats to block away the deep purple of loss, but it comes back to haunt me in my sleep every night where there is no orange, but only the deepest, darkest purple.

2. I pour black all over my heart and it burns out the red passion I used to hold, turning it into an anger that is insatiable, an anger that does not lessen. I have broken my mother’s best china and smashed the table that held my snow globes. I have not slept for ages now. My eyes burn as I stare at the blank wall, my soul burns away thread by thread as the black swallows the purple.

3. The black fades to a pale, sickly brown, and I pray to whoever and whatever may listen to rewind time and let me hear you laugh one more time. Please, I say. Please, I scream, and I scream until my voice gives out and the neighbors look through flicking curtains to find the banshee, but all that I hear is the taunting silence of the universe.

4. My heart and fingers turn into a velvety cobalt blue, and it slowly travels until I am blue all over, from the tips of my hair to the nails of my feet, and I play with fire to drive it away, and I play with sharp objects to cut it away, but even the scabs that form are blue, and the scars left behind are blue. I don’t think it will ever go away, I’m a girl of blue ice who can never get to fire in time ever again.

5. My heart is the palest shade of copper now, and I know I’m not the first person the universe has thrown off the edge of the world. I know I will not be the last. Life will forever go on as it always has because we’re just tiny ideas occupying borrowed space in the void of the universe, and that’s exactly how it is supposed to be.


Image taken from here.

Dumb Charades.

I wonder darling, some days when you sit beside me as we continue this charade of ours, do you hear my jaws as they grind together hard enough to resemble rusty machinery that cannot be made to function again, no matter how much oil is poured into its ancient joints? Do you look at me from the side of your eye, and see a statue of hollow stone, and can you hear my heart as it beats against its stone prison as hard as ever, begging to be let free? Can you see how the thorns stick into my bloody back from these thrones of ours? Do you feel the heat of the flames that lap at my feet, threatening to melt this girl of ice and snow, or do you admire how they reflect in my black eyes instead?
Do you even see the blood as it drips from where my nails have cut into my palms too deep, do you notice the crimson stains as they grow slowly on the arms of these seats that provide no rest in all their glory?
You used to say you could hear my words before they even left my mouth, but these days, why can’t you feel my screams as they rise from my gut, only to die in my throat?

I wish I had known before, ruling in hell isn’t all it is made out to be.

I Will Not Apologize.

The sun apologizing for burning too bright,
It has never been heard of;
The moon apologizing for days when it must hide away,
It has never been heard of;
The stars apologizing for their incessant twinkling,
It has never been heard of;
The clouds apologizing for veiling the sky’s blue with their cottony embrace,
It has never been heard of;
The mountains apologizing for marring the earth with their magnificence,
It has never been heard of;
The sea apologizing for churning too chaotically;
It has never been heard of;
Why then, my dear,
Must I apologize
For burning as bright as the sun,
And then hiding away like the moon,
For eyes that twinkle like the stars,
But are veiled the very next moment,
For standing tall and magnificent,
With tornadoes raging inside me,
Why must I apologize for my greatness,
When I was born with universes inside of me,
Bursting to be let out?
And if it is too much for you to take in,
I will not apologize for being who I am,
You can go waste your time away
You can go
Find another puppet.


Image taken from here.

Old Times’ Sake.

If you must act so insolently

Just because my blue skies

Are now grey thunderstorms

You cannot bear the sound of,

Please continue,

Only remember that even today,

If you were to hand me a cup of poison,

I would gladly drink it for old times’ sake.


Painting: “Sophonisba Receiving the Poisoned Cup” by Rembrandt.

Guilt-ridden Hallucinations.

The other night my dear, as I lay down to sleep, this heart of mine stopped beating for a second or two as your image burnt through my mind and your laughter haunted my ears; I wheezed for breath but it felt like my throat had constricted until there was no passage for air.
I coughed and coughed in a desperate attempt for air until scarlet droplets covered the white-tiled floor by my feet and my head felt as light as it would whenever I breathed in your scent, it felt like the guilt of your death would finally crush me, but just then the door burst open and he rushed in, worry evident in his familiar pretty eyes as he took in my tortured state, blood painting my lips red.
He helped me to my feet and then to the bathroom with a firm and gentle grip, and handed me an aspirin and a glass of water after I had rinsed the blood out of my mouth, just like you always did.
There was an uncanny similarity between you and he, I saw it in the way he took the glass from me and set it down on the side table, little too close to the edge, before following me out to the balcony and in the way he swatted the lit cigarette away from my lips and crushed it viciously under his heel, directing a disapproving look at me.
I couldn’t take it anymore, the similarity, it was too much and I started laughing.
I laughed and laughed and laughed, and it was the laugh of a crazed mind, a mad woman.

You would not stop torturing me from even beyond the grave itself, it seemed.

Forever.

He looked into the sunset, slightly squinting as the water reflected the rays right into his eyes, but he was a magnificent sight, with the sun glinting off his dark hair, crows’ feet forming on the corners of his eyes and his jaw even more pronounced as he ground his teeth together like he always did when someone mentioned her, eyes filling with an emotion I couldn’t place, and I was wondering if he knew how beautiful he was, how for the first time ever, I wasn’t staring at the sunset but rather, at a prettier picture, when he spoke again.
The dead understand, you see, they always do: it is the living that don’t. So yeah, I think she’ll understand why I’m doing this, if she’s looking over me or whatever it is that people tell themselves to lessen the pain. Won’t appreciate it, but she’ll understand, she was smart that way.”
He ends with a bitter smile and glances towards me before starting to draw random lines in the dirt, and all I wanted to do was hug him so hard that he felt okay again because I knew how it felt to be so lost, but I wasn’t sure if he’d like that, so pursing my lips before I blurted out something about him overshadowing the sunset, I picked up my drawing book again, thinking if I couldn’t have him, at least I could try to capture him in this very moment, and keep it with me because people leave but your memories stay, and this moment was the kind that I’d remember even if I got amnesia tomorrow, I knew I’d remember him like this forever.


Image taken from here.

Second Loves And What They Feel Like.

Falling in love for the first time is like being an adrenaline junkie and jumping off a cliff, full of naive courage and only thinking of the wind rushing through your hair. But your second love is harder because as you lay there on the sharp rocks, the adrenaline of the flight down wearing off and your body battered, bruised and bleeding, you’ll promise yourself to never go through anything that risky, that damaging ever again, because it’s just not worth it. 

The ecstasy is not worth the pain.

You’ll promise yourself to never let your fragile heart in someone else’s ruthless palms ever again after seeing it smash down onto the rocks and scatter into a million pieces, and as the water will start to rise, tides lapping up the shore, at first the cool water will feel good on your broken body until you’ll realize it’s pulling you out to sea now, and you’ll hold on to whatever rocks you can, cutting your hands and making rivulets of blood flow down your arms, to keep yourself from going into the water because you know you won’t be able to keep afloat, but the water is strong, and you are not, and now you’re in the water with no more energy. You’ll stop fighting, and go under water, but you will not drown. You’ll sink to the bottom of the sea, and sometimes swallow salty sea water that burns down your throat, but you’ll be alive, and you’ll be more alive than you’ll have ever been, sitting on the seabed with the fishes around you, and you’ll realize that maybe you thought yourself stupid for thinking you’d be one of those who found their wings on the way down from the cliff and flew off into glorious sunsets, but you’ll know you were stupid for fighting the water when you’ll find that you can breathe in the sea easier than you did in the purest of air. This is where you were meant to be, and you know now that anything can happen.

You believe again.

This is what your second love is like.


Image taken from here.