I Should’ve Known Better.

I swore on the grave of all the dreams I had abandoned, I wouldn’t let you get to me. I swore on the sun and I swore on the moon, and I swore on the love that made them chase each other across the heavens- the sadness would never find a home in my ribs again. I promised myself that I would wait for you, I’d wait for as long as I had to because I knew, I knew you were coming and I promised myself I wouldn’t doubt you.

But the sadness is here again now, breaking down my door, and you are not. And I’m left sitting here in resignation, wondering if you ever even really existed, if you weren’t just a figment of my desperation, I’m left sitting here counting down the ticks and tocks of this old dusty clock until the sadness floods in to smother me; I’m left sitting here craving the bitter taste of tobacco and death again, craving the feeling of vengeful pleasure that came with the tar smoke corrupting my lungs with every inhale and every cough; I am left sitting here, craving my own end, and thinking ‘God, I should’ve known better than to let a dream wreck me like this. I should’ve fucking known better.’



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.


Cycle Of Life.

We’re humans, and we are sad creatures with an affinity for self destruction.

We fall in love; true, mad and deep love; destructive love; love that brings us together only to tear us apart, as if it were but a figment of our cruel imagination, as if it never really existed. It leaves us empty and broken, and we break ourselves even more in efforts to forget the euphoria, we look to other substances in desperate attempts to recreate the high but can you ever try to replay a dream?

So we smile in our sadness, and we laugh and laugh until we’ve forgotten the difference between real and fake; we perfect the art of deceit so well, standing in front of mascara stained and bearded reflections that you wouldn’t be able to tell from our eyes the chaos that resides inside, the shards that pierce through our guts.

And thus, we trudge on through life, breaking and falling apart more and more each day, until love puts us back together again, but only to rip us apart even more fiercely this time; this is the cycle of life.

Image credits: Shafaq Mujtaba

New Beginnings.

Life is more than mess ups, and it is more than heartbreak. Life is all about the choices you make, and I plan to find out each one of mine.

So adieu, darling.

Maybe we’ll meet someday on strange lands that haven’t been tainted with my mascara stained tears, around stranger people who will just see us as silhouettes on a street and rush past. Maybe we’ll be wiser and laugh over how stupid we used to be, maybe I’ll be able to bear the sight of you as a stranger and stand for a moment of small talk or two. Or maybe we won’t.
But I will hold on to the idea that this is not where the story ends, I’ll put a semi colon on this sentence and start a new chapter, hoping that some day we’ll get another chance to write the ending, and even if we don’t, I’ll hold on to this idea forever, keeping it folded close in the dusty cracks of my old heart.

Someday, I might be able to let light into that part, clean out the boxes upon boxes of memories you left, which lie there, along with this hope that never seems to go away but that day is not today.
For now, I will focus on every breath I take in, and every breath I let out; I will focus on each step of mine and try to put one foot after the other without stumbling as I walk away from the smoldering remains of what we never had.

The fire still rages on, but so does this old fool, my heart, and it holds on too, and for now, I will keep writing and re-writing a tragedy unlike anything this world has ever seen before.

I always had an obsession with being the tragic heroine, and you, the villain, remember?

Image taken from here.

A Modern Tragedy.

We were our own kind of story, our own kind of disaster. We were Romeo and Juliet without the love, written by a sadist Shakespeare where Juliet stabs Romeo in the back herself as he sits there, filling the room with the gray haze of hash infused smoke, where the two turned into enemies before they could’ve ever been anything more.
So don’t talk to me about fear and don’t talk to me about madness, don’t talk to me about recklessness when all of my worst fears have finally come true and life is a nightmare, peppered with moments to make it feel bearable, when it’s anything but. Nothing is worth it anymore and do not try to convince me otherwise.

The sadness really does last forever.

Image taken from here.


Or Die Trying.

Five days
Since we’ve last talked,
And yet
I find myself strangely
Not minding the silence;
Maybe it’s because
I feel happier than I’ve felt
In a long, long time,
Happier than
I remember being?
I haven’t forgotten you, my love,
And I do miss you so terribly
That I wake up with a start in the middle of the night,
Find my heart aching,
For your presence;
My ears beg
For the sound of your voice;
My eyes ask to be graced
With your smile,
But I quiet their cries,
I turn over,
Fluff my pillow,
And try to drown out reality
With dreams again.

I’m scared, darling,
This is just the calm
Before the storm
And I wish I could bottle up
This happiness
For the rainy days to come,
I quell myself,
With talks of dreams
And how they demand sacrifice,
Try to play off losing you
As not a cruel twist of fate
But a choice instead,
When I’m fooling no one.

Oh old heart, shush!
We shall get through this together,
Or die trying.

Image taken from Tumblr.


They say that if seasons were mortality, then autumn would be death while spring would be life, and I’ve always believed it with all my heart but it’s spring now, with flower buds starting to bloom and smiles and laughter all around, so why does it all seem like a death sentence to me, why does every sweet scented flower smell poisonous and every giggle sound like a choke for breath, why does the moonlight fail to pacify me and the thunder not lull me to sleep?
Is it the seasons, or is it me who has changed?
Or is it, rather, your absence which eats away at my core faster than the seconds it takes to crush a honey bee and send it to its death?
I’m scared and I’m a mess, I miss you, my dear, but above all I miss my spring, it was never my favorite of the seasons, no, but I need it to thaw this frozen heart before it’s too late, can you please come back?

I never learnt how to do this, how to let go of someone who was never mine to begin with.
I’m sorry.

Image credits: Billy Kidd


Death March.

Way to the hospital, way to the morgue,

She knew them both by heart,

A flick to the left, a flick to the right,

And she would’ve done her part.

Both had been traced innumerable times

On wrists already marked;

A scar each, for the demons

She failed to keep in dark.

What stops her yet she does not know,

But the hounds have begun to bark,

Her weakened heart beats a death march

And the headless carriage draws near, now hark!

Image credits: Unknown.


Tragic Beliefs.

For the longest time, coming across the words “nostalgic for a place you’ve never been to” was a joke that I’d laugh my heart out at. The whole notion was ridiculous to me, how could one pine for a place they’ve never been to, yearn for something they’ve never experienced?
But as they say, with time comes wisdom and now, I know.
I know that it is possible and that this itching in my soul, this discomfort, these incessant, erratic fights that my heart puts up, these are all nothing but a calling, a remembrance of a place I don’t even know, of arms I am not sure exist, but on long cold nights like this, I am reminded of desperately, and my sadness finds a way to condense and drip from my lashes as I sit on the roof, drowning in my agony, unable to decide what to make of this, the tragic belief that somewhere out there exists a person, the antidote to my misery, only I am unaware of when we shall ever cross paths, if we ever do, if we ever have.

Image taken from here.