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

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?

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

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.

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, 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 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.

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.

A Poem For The Boy I’m Not Sure Exists.

I dream of you every night, 

And it’s always the same;

You sneak into my semi conscious brain

With the subtle footsteps 

Of foamy seawaves on a very windy day,

But, that’s okay,

I mean, writing you love letters before I even knew you existed?

I might not know what subtle is, 

But if you open the dictionary to the word that’s the opposite of it, 

You’re gonna find my picture.

See, you visited me one night,

So is it really my fault if I only sleep in hopes that you will maybe once again?

But I only catch glimpses of your shadow here and there,

I chase your footsteps across the ruins of my mind,

And I think I’m only going around forming crop circles in the blue flower fields.

But then, I wake up in the mornings to 4 PM sunbeams, golden and lovely, scattered all over my pillows and on my cheeks,

And really, I think you need to stop playing this hide and seek with me,

Just drop over into my reality the way I drop my pencils all over the place,

And believe me, love, I’ll draw you like it’s the only thing I’ve ever lived for,

Because that’s true, 

And I’ll make you my best masterpiece. 

Just the way you are.

I sleep with the nightlight on these days,

And my father looked at me like he didn’t know who I was anymore the next morning 

After he saw the faint light peek out under my door one night, 

But you change me into someone I never knew I wanted to be,

And I’m here waiting for you with my nightlight on,

In hopes that maybe if you sneak by into my dreams again, 

I’ll wake up with your laughter streaked across my eyelids, 

In hopes that maybe I’ll see it clearer, 

Remember it this time, 

Sew your crescent lips into the dark split seconds of each blink,

Hold it close every time the world goes black.

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Image found on Tumblr.