Disjointed (heart)Beats

Do you see,
Do you see,
Do you see,
I’m a record on repeat,
on repeat,
on repeat,
This gramophone is a bit too old,
a bit too rusty,
but love call me a fool,
I say it works well enough,
well enough,
well enough,
for us to dance if we want,
if you want to,
do you want to?
Do you see how you leave fingerprints all across my life?
You’re leaving them behind,
don’t leave me behind,
don’t leave me be, don’t shut yourself off behind walls I can’t climb over
or sing to me if you will and I promise I’ll break down wall after wall
to find you
but that’s nothing new, you know I’m always here for you,
for you,
for everyone,
my life only means something when it’s lived for someone else,
I’m only someone when I’m playing a role in your story,
in your story,
in your story,
so tell me will you keep me, will you let me stay,
will you open up my doors and lead me out into the light?
Will you do for me the things I’d do for you?
Will you break the rules,
break the rules,
all the rules,
like I’ve done for you?


Image credits: Margriet Smulders

Spider Silk Home

My mum tells me old habits die hard
I laugh because sometimes the only thing my old habits have their hands around is my throat
see, I’ve got a habit of running
Away
From books, from feelings,
would-be-lovers, new sunsets
from myself, and new sunrises sometimes,
places,
people,
things.
Nouns and adjectives.
Speaking of nouns, he asks me to run away with him sometimes
Let’s run away from home he says.
home is a noun
An abstract noun
And I tell him
I left home back ages ago
wherever it is, home has skid-marks of my feet gracing its welcome mat.
Home has boarded up windows, and jammed doors,
in fact the only thing alive in home anymore is probably spiders who’ve made their own homes there,
little spider webs, fragile threads stronger than anything else.
He says let’s just run away then, love
we’ll be spiders too,
make our own home
wrap it up in bolts of spider silk
So no one can ever get through.
He makes me smile, (a lot)
and so I say I’ll think about it.
See, I’ve been running away for so long, I’ve been around the universe twice and one half times,
but maybe, it would be nice to come home
to a spider web home
of our own
at the end of the third lap.


Image credits: Mike Depetris

Hummingbird Heart.

You’ve made a stranger out of me in my own city,
made these hills into pieces of jagged earth left behind
in the aftermath of something terrible that once happened,
jagged like my teeth,
broken on all the screams I have been holding back 
since you silenced me.
cruel boy, 
you made a hummingbird out of a clay heart 
just to set it on fire.
now everyday, I wake up dripping with quicksand sadness.
every night, I dream myself into a little boat,
capsize in the middle of the ocean without a sound,
capsize into my shame,
capsize into the song of the banshee inside my head.
cruel boy,
do you remember when you promised to stay forever,
or was that another flimsy pretty thing I dreamed up?
I see in holograms, unsure of what is real these days,
and I agree, the world is ending,
but why can’t anyone else notice the knife you left in my neck?
I’ve been bleeding for days and days.
darling boy,
I know the world is ending and you won’t turn back,
but I hope you’re okay,
wherever your cruel heart takes you.


Image credits

Hope everyone’s safe. 🙂

A Poem In 24 Lines.

1. I used to pray for happiness, now all I wish for is peace.

But my mother never taught me how to pray for something when I can hardly speak, when my words jumble and clash and slice the inside of my throat as I try to get them out – my mother’s god is a god of words and the mute are all damned by default.

2. Heaven’s pearly gates burnt my eyes, so I knocked on the devil’s door instead – it seems to be though, that even he has chosen to abandon me.

3. I would’ve set fire to the doors of both heaven and hell, and laughed with you over the screams of gods and demons, indiscernible across the heat, if you’d have asked me to.

4. But my brand of love always comes too cheap and gets bland after a while, like gum you have chewed for too long, my love leaves an abrupt bitter aftertaste, so of course you left in search of better things.

5. After you left, I spent six months pouring out the mess you left me with into my words. The six months after, I put away my pens and paper in a locked box at the top of my wardrobe, out of reach and hidden like scissors and knives from a child with an affinity for sharp objects and blood, with an affinity for self-destruction.

6. Somewhere along the way, I got used to the holes in my lungs, I learnt to breathe with them.

7. At 17, I read that everything we ever lose comes back to us, one way or another.

8. Everything was fine until you decided to drop into my dreams. I started to wake up with screams of please don’t let me leave stuck in my throat again.

9. In my mother’s world, consciousness is life. When you sleep, you are semi conscious, you are between life and death. Your consciousness is divided into two, and what you see when you dream, is what the half of your consciousness that travels experiences.

10. My mother’s world is the one I grew up with. It is my default world, and when there are holes in the new world that I am trying to create for myself, they are filled by default.

11. I would like it if your consciousness stays to other realms, far, far away from mine. Because –

12. When she broke your heart again and you told her I had been right it did not magically unbreak my heart, stitch my broken skin back along every scar. It did not break and put together perfectly again the last three knuckles of my right hand.

13. Some cold days my hands still bruise again at the knuckles, as if my body remembers how I tore it apart after you left. As if it swears over and over again to never forgive me for it.

14. At 18, I realize that the only truth of my universe is Murphy’s Law – anything and everything that can go wrong does go wrong.

15. I have been cursed for centuries, my atoms cursed from every life they have lived. I am being punished for sins I have not committed, for lives I have not ruined.

16. My soul has collapsed into itself with a pitiful whisper, and my ribs have cracked from the weight that pushes down on me, twisting into my lungs until every breath splutters with blood like old car engines on cold mornings. Your consciousness must stay away from me, you must stay away from me because –

17. Seeing you dug up memories I had buried deep under 6 feet of concrete. But somehow I was the one who ended up buried under years worth of memories, heavier than concrete, heavier than anything could physically, possibly be. I am trying to dig out now, with only my hands for tools. How much more damage will you do before you leave me alone for good?

18. These cursed hands were made to create, I scream at the grey faceless walls that cage me in. They laugh at me instead and watch in silent amusement as I destroy my own hopes for salvation.

19. Everything I have ever started but never finished still stares at me through the incomplete painting still stuck to my bedroom wall with tape.

20. But I don’t know what completion feels like – what it is like to be whole. How can I make something whole when I am not?

21. And yet, if you’d have let me, I would’ve thought you my best project – you would’ve been what I was most proud of.

Complete or not, you could’ve been what I was most proud of.

22. My mother’s god is one worth praying to, but only when you’ve worked as hard as you can, as much as you can, for the fulfillment of your prayer – a god that grants you only the fruit of your labors.

23. Maybe that’s why my words fail me as I try to form a prayer, maybe that is why all my wordless pleas fall on ears that only turn away from me. Maybe, at the end of the day, I have never wanted anything enough to actually get it.

24. So tell me, where do you damn your life and everything in it to, when it’s all already going to hell?


Image taken from Tumblr.

Confessions Of A Fading Ghost.

Listen, I am a ghost, and you cannot convince me otherwise. I haunt the ones I love and that is why they hate me- I’m a reminder of everything good that was actually only rotten all along and no one likes to be betrayed. My honey tears are molten glass and they will sear into your skin to brand you with my curse. If I were a person I’d be the loneliest in the world but I don’t remember my dreams anymore. I don’t think I can dream anymore, except every morning I wake up with a bigger hole in my gut and I am a hollow ghost of once-there-but-fleeting happiness. I tried to love this world but everyone wears the same mask and all my soulmates have eyes a little too hollow except one. This world glorifies ghosts but doesn’t want to become one, and my heart wants to give out on me before I give up on it. My brain abandoned us to our horrors years ago. The chanting in my ears comes from another place, I think it’s trying to call to me, but I’m a ghost and I can only go where the wind takes me. I floated into an anatomy class once and I know all about humans now, except how to become one. I hear they are fond of making homes in one another the way I sink into my quicksand sadness. Atlas needed a break so I agreed to take his place but now my shoulders hurt and my vertebrae are slowly turning into sawdust. If I crumble and fall entirely, the world will fall with me- who will be left to pick up the mess I make?

——————————————————————

Image credits: Shingo Takei, from The World At Night.

Yes, I’m Drunk, But Only On You.

I don’t want sad songs anymore.
Give me happy songs, give me love songs. Give me songs that make me feel as tender as you have made me, love.
I am an open wound healing after years of infection. I am clay that you are shaping into something worth loving. I am a girl with a butterfly heart that takes flight the moment your name shows up on my phone screen.
You are the oasis in the desert, the island in the middle of the unending sea, and I am every weary traveler, every adrift sailor, lost and looking for somewhere to call home.
(Each breath I take is a love note with your name on it.)
This love is so sweet my teeth might rot; so warm, I don’t feel my fingers turning blue. This love dipped my heart into golden honey and made stars out of my eyes. You once asked me if I could feel the warmth of your love and I wanted to scream back that it is all that runs through my veins anymore. All of me has become a monument to this love- all of me. The hole in my gut is closing up after years and years of hollowness. The blades in my throat have turned into flowers that bubble out with every laugh- and there are lots of laughs.
(You have saved me from my self.)
Please don’t leave. Please stay, for ever and ever. I’ll need a lifetime to sink into all the colors in your eyes anyways.


Image credits.

The Angel Wears a Gas Mask.

I’m going mad, I’m going mad, love. There’s something scratching beneath my skin, and I have no cure. My grandmother used to tell me that to call a monster by its name would save me, but I have no name to call this one, nothing to tame it by. This madness has no name, but its face has always looked a little too much like yours. It’s lethal, and it’ll end me. Don’t ask me how I know, I’ve seen the angel in the corner of my eye put on a gas mask. Everyone around me is weary, as if they are tired of trying to not catch a disease they have no knowledge of, except their minds can join the dots to a danger they can’t consciously be aware of. I don’t know enough words to scream this is me, the disease is me. You can’t catch what is braided into my DNA. This madness only comes once but it kills everyday. I don’t know how long a corpse can pretend to be alive for.


Image credits.

A Mad Heart’s Plea

My heart is a steady soliloquy of drumbeats banging out the same tune over and over: I want it to be you. In a million languages, dead and alive, in Morse code, in the language only the stars understand. If you tore my chest open you would find it written in the Braille of Longing, punched all over my ribs and heart, spiraling across every bone. You would find it etched in hieroglyphs and Arabic calligraphy across all my neuronal pathways. I am a dying girl and you are the antidote to death. If you could, would you be mine forever?


Image credits.

Untitled

I am a twenty year old girl who has just found singing for the first time, and you are the melody that keeps clashing behind my closed teeth. Your name fights, syllable to syllable, colliding against cartilage and making a boxing ring out of my larynx. The vocal coach hums a sweet tune, but my trapped-bee-buzzing might sound a lot like screams if I opened my mouth. Singing and you are much like each other, a language I do not know, a note I cannot reach, a tune I cannot hold. My voice box is a desert- dry and empty except for the occasional cactus and tumbleweed. You are the rain, the assured violin notes of a master violinist universe that plays the music to which the sun, moon and earth all dance to. The curtains fall and rise in a melody of their own. The dance ends, and begins, and ends. I sit alone in the auditorium and wait for syzygy but throughout the settings and risings, it never happens even once. The universe plays dice, the people play dice, and not once in all the mathematical probabilities and coincidences do the stars align so that you come back to me, as you were.

On The Outskirts of Heaven

Listen, listen, listen, please, you hear but I need you to listen to everything I’m screaming without opening my mouth, I need you to put aside these games and just listen to me.
Please. Listen before it’s too late.
Beneath these webs we want the same thing. You want me to want you, and I already do.
I swear, just open your eyes and listen. You’ll find me behind the whirlwind haze of glitter that surrounds you.
Here I am, on the outskirts of heaven trying to look straight at you.
Between my rose glasses and your glittering halo there’s not much I can see.
Between my rose glasses and your glittering halo there’s not much to see.
(If only you’d feel.)
If only all these people could get out of our way, then we could be our curtains-down, kitchen-sink selves. I could breathe and you could smile like the world was ours.
Like the world wasn’t ending.
Like we didn’t make so many mistakes that slept on our shoulders while we stayed up at night.
Like we weren’t making new ones every time we looked away.
The ghosts in my city like to count my mistakes out loud, I wonder if you hear their echo all the way to where you are.
Wherever you are.
I wonder if you hear me calling you home.