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.

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.


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.

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.


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.

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,


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


Image taken from here.


Smoke and Fire.

Looking back now, I see we were every cliche love story ever gone wrong, and yet we weren’t even a love story, not even a story by far. All we ever were, were a few chapters of some cheap sad paperback called life where nothing works out right, where I wore multiple rose tinted glasses one over the other to stay in my dreamy, perfect world. A world in which one perfect rainy day, the universe would give me everything I’d ever wanted, and I’d be oh-so-glad for never giving up every time I looked at you; all the universe did was rip away my rose lens with such ferocity it left me with bleeding eyes and burning pupils, unblinking till I was more numb than my fingers on my favorite winter days, too numb to realize that we were slow dancing in a burning room, and now it’s too late to get out; all that’s left of us is smoke and fire, and a pile of charred bones on the ground, while somewhere, the universe laughs in its malevolence.

I once read somewhere that the dreamers are always the ones left locked up in gray walled rooms, while everyone else gets to ride off into their glorious sunset, and I remember scoffing at that, but here I am, suffocating and choking on my own ashes while you get the perfect world I’d always dreamed of.

And then people ask me why I don’t smile like I used to anymore.



Oh, we were such a paradox, darling,

No wonder everything turned out as it did;

We were never made to last,

Not even for long,

And my life is a never ending summer now,

But summer was never our season anyways,

Our times of the day were always

The brightest and the darkest,

The noon and the night,

But I like dawns,

And late afternoons now

Because the sky has never turned

Golden to purple, with all the colors in between

As I looked at you,

The sun has never been on the verge of disappearing,

It’s eternal road run for the day,

As I’ve dreamt about you.

It has never heard me describe to it out loud,

How your eyes crinkled when you smiled,


That was always the moon,

Burdened with my quiet tears

Of bittersweet agony

In the screaming dark;

Oh darling,

You were poison to the fragments of rotten soul

Residing in my gut,

But let’s not forget it was I,

Who decided to drink up




In my search

For ecstasy and a ribcage

I could burrow into and call


Image credits: Shafaq Mujtaba

Also, guys, I’ve just posted a poem on The Artistics as well! Check it out now!


Letters To The Dead.

Oh darling, I’ve heard them say life is about building bridges for someone without knowing if you’ll cross it with them, and every time I come across those words my heart almost stops to beat, and not in a good way either. If there’s one thing I’ve never wanted to be, it is selfish, but all these words do is tell me that this mourning, this grief that I have sunk into after laying you to rest is selfish, as if they expect me to be fine! What do they know about the fire in my heart, the hole in my gut? What do you know about the extent of my love, and now of my rage? I will not return, and neither will you; we were always filled with too much pride, too much ego to look beyond at anything else, but you never knew that, did you? You couldn’t see your own two feet because of that ego of yours, and it is what drove you to your ruin. No one knows anything at all about the sluggish blood that flows through my veins as if it were gasoline, burning the fire in my heart brighter and brighter every second, I cannot sleep, I cannot rest, all I can do is wait with bated breath for the beginning of your fall.

For you must know by now mon cher, everything that rises must face an equal fall. It is the law this universe swirls upon, and it will be the harbringer of your demise, my love.

Image credits: Shafaq Mujtaba