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.

Golden Destruction.

Midas turned all he touched to gold, but he ruined it, all the while thinking he was turning it into something better.

Isn’t that what we all do?

Pick everything apart, and try to put it together again in a form better to us than the last, but we forget that the pieces do not fit together perfectly, and we leave disappointed, the person, a puzzle, unable to comprehend what has happened.

Until one day, they meet someone who is able to put back the pieces where they belonged, and the person is finally complete again after being taken apart and put together again countless times; this is the song of life that we are all forced to dance to, regardless of whether we like it or not.


Image taken from: Tsuneaki Hiramatsu

 

Grey Tiredness.

A tiredness hard to imagine

Dwells in the sunsets of your eyes,

A tiredness hard to imagine

In an eighteen year old,

As if you still carry

All the burdens of your past lives.

There dwells

A resignation to fate,

A resignation to whatever life throws at you,

A never-ending monotony

That seems impossible to get rid of,

No matter how hard I try

And it gets to me,

It pulls at the strings of my heart,

Makes me want to rip

All my skin off;

I want to scream,

Hit you hard,

Anything

To save you from drowning

In this grey,

But nothing seems to work

And I just watch helplessly

As you sink deeper

And deeper

Into the quicksand

While I stand

On cracking ice

Myself.


Image taken from here.

 

A Letter From The Sadist Inside.

My darling,
I know it’s so troublesome to think about right now, that in less than 3 months you’ll probably never see him again, but oh, my dear, you’ll get through it. I know it feels so much harder to hold on to this tiny ledge, and so much easier to just let go, fall off into the gray mist of insanity, with these the only thoughts in your mind, asleep or awake, ticking off second by second.
It’s a goddamn time bomb, and we both know that when it bursts, the shrapnel will only bury itself deeper into your rotten brain and bleeding heart, but you will get through it all. You will get through even if it seems so much easier to let out all your agony in bloody rivulets dripping down your arms, it is much easier, letting your tired heart rest forever now, but no. You have things to do before that can happen, lives to change, lives to save. So you will trudge on, breath by breath, even if your lungs feel like they’re filled to the brim with muddy murk, until one day, it’ll be gone.
Or maybe it won’t.
Maybe, for every day for the rest of your life, you’ll have to wake up with the murk suffocating you, and you will have no choice but to get used to it, breaking down every night when it gets too much, when you miss him beyond thoughts, when you hate him for ruining the world for you. But every morning, you’ll put on that mask again, and act as if the world’s still pure. You have no other choice.
And if the thought gets too much?
Let yourself remember.
Let yourself break all over again, just for those few moments of exhilaration.
Sometimes you need to remain broken. I’ve heard its good for art.
Because we both know, there’s no way in Elysium or Tartarus that you’ll ever be able to forget him, his passions, his dreams, his smile, him.


Image taken from Tumblr.

 

Blood, Tears and Sweat.

Blood and tears and sweat mix again tonight, even though it’s January, even though it’s cold out here, or so they say; I cannot feel the chilly night blanketing me in its embrace, I cannot feel the moonbeams as they dance across everything they fall on, today, all I can do is sit here with blood and tears and sweat mixing together, I have no control over myself anymore. It feels as if my mind is turning off, and maybe it is, maybe it should.

It might be my only chance at peace anymore.

Oh, how I long for oblivion, to be forgotten, or remembered forever, to get away from all of this, and most importantly you, the demon who only plays with my sanity, leading me on ruthlessly.

Every minute I spend with you is like playing Russian Roulette with myself; you whisper sweet nothings and alleviate my fears one second, and the very next, you pull away, leaving me clutching at empty air. You do this, all the while telling me you’re only a demon, and I refuse to believe that adamantly, I close my eyes and turn blind to you as you cut through my mind and my soul, I turn blind to you as you feed, because in my heart, I do not feel demons could be ever so grey, and yet so colorful. You remind me of a kaleidoscope in those few moments you let me in.

I know it is but an illusion, I know my heart is but a fool, but then when has someone ever willingly opened their eyes to the reality around them, and when have I been an exception to the world?

So I sit here in these few moments when I’m jerked back to reality, but soon I will fall asleep, I can already feel the pills slowing the blood from racing in my veins so loudly it keeps me up at night, soon I will sleep, and tomorrow I will turn a blind eye to your games again, because my dear, when have I ever missed a chance to hurt myself?

When have I ever lost faith in you as you stand in front of me?


Image taken from here.

 

The Future.

I try not to think of the future too much these days,
It gets too much to bear if I do;
It wakes the serpent lodged inside,
And wraps it around my rib cage so tightly,
Weaving in and out of ribs so lovingly,
I cannot breathe,
I cannot scream,
I can only sit
With teary eyes
As the snake gnaws at my heart with its poisonous mouth,
And try to imagine what it’ll be like,
When you finally leave,
When our time is over,
Will the serpent devour my heart,
Like did Ammut, a sinner’s,
Heavier than the feather of Ma’at?
Will my soul be cast off into darkness forever,
I must know
For there is no doubt, my dear
That when you leave I shall cease to exist.

The Hunted.

کوئ مرے دل سے پوچهے ترے تیر نیم کش کو -“

“- یہ خلش کہاں سے هوتی جو جگر کے پار ہوتا

Someone should ask my heart about your half drawn arrow
Where would this pain be, if it had gone through my liver!


As we sat on the roof today, the cold slaves of Boreas leaving cruel, stinging kisses on our cheeks and blowing away our hair and coats, a friend mentioned these verses of poetry, and you laughed loudly, dismissing the whole idea as ridiculous, you never did get poetry or any form of literature really, you said, all the while I looked on, wondering how you’d react if you knew the amount of ballads I’d written for you, about you, and in that moment I screamed in my head, begging you to realize how much you meant to me, how much I loved you, I screamed with an intensity that moved the heavens themselves to tears, and yet you remained oblivious to my plight, laughing the poetry away.


For people not familiar with the Urdu language, this verse of poetry by Mirza Ghalib may not make any sense without context. He basically alludes to the concept of Cupid’s arrows as well as hunting; the arrow of love is shot towards him, and it has hit his heart, referring to unrequited love possibly, because he is in a state of pain. This idea of one-sided affection is further strengthened in the next line, because olden times, when animals were hunted with arrows, an arrow that went through the liver meant a painless and quick death for the animal, so therefore the poet, in a height of emotional suffering, wishes the arrow might have gone through his liver, leading to a quick death. *

*This is written according to my own understanding of poetry, so I beg pardon for any mistakes.

Fire and Ice.

“You are ice and I burn, I guess I’ll never learn.”


I heard a song today, and it reminded me of us, but then its not like everything nowadays doesn’t remind me of how you were not mine to keep.I wonder how long I’ll take to accept the fact that we were cursed from the start, a ship doomed to crash against the jagged cliffs of Fate.

Steadfast Pumping.

My sadness doesn’t seem to be

An emotion any more,

It is thick, it is liquid,

And it fills up my lungs,

Yet leaves enough space,

For breathing to turn into

A Herculean task,

And it is easier to

Simply close my eyes and stop breathing;

It seeps into my blood,

And thickens it,

Until my heart tires.

Yet it stands In its devotion,

Pumping and pumping,

Rather than

Giving up;

I wait for the day

It concedes.