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.

But-
NO. NO. NO.
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.

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.’

 

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.

Dumb Charades.

I wonder darling, some days when you sit beside me as we continue this charade of ours, do you hear my jaws as they grind together hard enough to resemble rusty machinery that cannot be made to function again, no matter how much oil is poured into its ancient joints? Do you look at me from the side of your eye, and see a statue of hollow stone, and can you hear my heart as it beats against its stone prison as hard as ever, begging to be let free? Can you see how the thorns stick into my bloody back from these thrones of ours? Do you feel the heat of the flames that lap at my feet, threatening to melt this girl of ice and snow, or do you admire how they reflect in my black eyes instead?
Do you even see the blood as it drips from where my nails have cut into my palms too deep, do you notice the crimson stains as they grow slowly on the arms of these seats that provide no rest in all their glory?
You used to say you could hear my words before they even left my mouth, but these days, why can’t you feel my screams as they rise from my gut, only to die in my throat?

I wish I had known before, ruling in hell isn’t all it is made out to be.

Forever.

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.

Untitled.

Listen, it’s been too long now, okay? Too goddamn long, and you need to leave. You need to get out of my heart because I won’t be letting you stay in here anymore, not when you’ve smashed every glass window and every mirror into a million shards and ripped every door off it’s hinges, not when you’ve left coffee stains on the walls from still drunken rages the mornings after. I’m boarding it up now. Maybe someday I’ll find the courage to renovate this house that you’ve destroyed and turn it into a home again, but for now I’ll board up the shattered windows and doors so that the splinters and the words we never yelled at each other don’t hurt anyone else. Maybe I won’t. My sixth grade teacher once told me that sometimes places never recover after they’ve been hit by hurricanes. Maybe it’s the same for people too. 

 

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.


GIF from GIPHY.

Home.

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,

No,

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

Every

Last

Drop

In my search

For ecstasy and a ribcage

I could burrow into and call

“Home”.


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