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.

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.

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.

Some Nights.

Some nights you try to convince yourself that you never loved her, but that it was only the familiarity of her laughter in a room full of strangers which drew you in, that the twinkle in her eyes was only so endearing because it reminded you of the night sky, but then you get up to look out the window and all is dark. The moon has hidden behind a curtain of grey clouds and the stars seem to have dimmed. You laugh as you realize that even the universe doesn’t know what to do without her- how can you expect to be able to put yourself together ever again? And as the moon peeks out guiltily from behind its veil at that moment, you start to miss her with a ferocity you never knew your tired bones held.


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.

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.

————————————————————————————————

Image found on Tumblr.

When Not-Love Comes Knocking.

Love knocked on my door again last night, but I closed my eyes and put my hands over my ears. I hid under the bed, in the space between reality and dream, and told myself that this wasn’t love, because love was supposed to walk straight in the front door. Love wouldn’t knock on windows and whisper from under doors but disappear once I tried to let it in, love wouldn’t haunt me like the ghost of everyone I let go because they weren’t love. Love would know all the words that always got stuck in the thorns between my ribs, and love would know why they never even got to my throat; love would know all about the skeletons I bury under the wilting blue flowers beneath my window, and why I dig them up every night to cry over them- love would know I’d sooner turn it into one of those skeletons than let it leave me, and maybe love did know all that but chose to ignore it, so I ignored love as it called me beloved and tried to peer in through light-less windows, because it wasn’t, it wasn’t love. It couldn’t be.

So I let love or maybe love (read: definitely not love) knock softly on my door all through the night, and at dawn, when not-love left, I finally fell asleep to loveless nightmares less scary than the knocks on my door. You see, in my dreams, love didn’t exist, but then neither did maybe love or not love or a possibly, almost kind of love.

———————————————————————

Image credits go to owner/s.

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

Human Forgetfulness.

We are humans, terribly forgetful creatures with a touch of sadism.
We rarely remember.
We mostly forget.
We remember bitterly, how vulnerable love made us feel.
We forget how it was vulnerability that fueled our passion, passion that could have caused us to burn cities and drown continents in our desperation, passion that destroyed us, ate away at our insides.
We remember how shattered love made us feel after it abandoned us.
We forget how it gave us the courage to do what we’d never done before, the strength to endure till our very last breath.
We remember tears, fights, wilted roses and heartbreak.
We forget coy smiles and unstoppable laughter, sleepless nights and the thrill of having inside secrets that only made sense to us.
What we forget, we cease to understand.
And what we cannot understand, we berate mercilessly, we ridicule ruthlessly.
So, we laugh. We laugh at the Romeos and Juliets of the world, the star crossed lovers, the tragic couples, we laugh at their passion.
We call them rash, we call them impulsive.
Stupid,sentimental, desperate.
But we’ve forgotten what it was to be one of them; young and rash, impulsive and desperate.
We’ve forgotten what it meant, to throw away all caution to the wind, to not give a rat’s piss about what the world thought of us.
We’ve forgotten what it meant to be in love.


Painting by a very talented young artist and great friend, Waleed Ahmad.

 

An Ongoing Roller-coaster.

Little do you know
How I adore you
Until you turn cold
And all my affections,
Drowned in melancholy
Disappear,
Until you talk to me again,
And I’m a pathetic babbling fool;
Love struck,
With my awful jokes
And unbearable puns,
Unable to gain control
Over these pesky emotions.

And little do you know
How absolutely I despise you,
Until you talk to me again,
And all the loathing,
Washed away with euphoria
Disappears,
Until the next time you’re cold,
And I’m a pathetic babbling fool,
Crying my eyes out;
Hating myself,
For not being stronger,
Despising you,
For being your cold self.

And then I am
All run out of steam,
Emotionless
All at once,
All you are
Is but, a muse
And I, a writer,
On a mission;
To show the world
What I see.

An ongoing roller coaster,
A never-ending ride,
Of high and lows
And repeating loops.
I, for one,
Never had much patience
With either,
So I wonder how long
Before I decide
To end this ride
Before I can
Take no more.