as i get inside the crowded bus,
a phone rings.
a ringtone just like yours.
has the world shrunk to the size
of the tragedy we created,
that i find you like this?
i know it is not you,
but it could be.
so i do not turn back.
it could be you,
so i try not to cry.
this is not where
walking away or breaking clean
should lead to.
at least not back to you.
at least not like this.
not on the day i finally felt
that i could move toward a new happiness.
why did you come back?
to tell me how i am not worthy of anything good?
to tell me no one can love something like me?
to tell me how thinking is unhealthy for love like ours?
to check if my skin remembers your anger?
to tell me to speak softly, to submit to your wishes
if i wish to be forgiven for your mistakes?
why did you come back,
when you don’t even want me?
what do i want?
snapshots of food i can’t eat?
GIFs and videos to forward?
people to gossip about? people to gossip to?
false sense of confidence?
a filter for my mouth?
a switch to put my heart to death?
a reality check (altered to suit my expectation)?
one more fun quiz to test my mental stability?
a diary for my lies,
so that I can keep my mess together,
to continue making mess efficiently?
a makeover that suits your eyes?
a surgery that can make me look good, make me worth introducing?
someone to stop me?
someone who won’t leave?
They forgot to teach me
the most basic thing-
to know which side I should take
to keep a check on papers, to see sense
when someone tells me what is politically right
and to agree when they tell me that identity is everything
not only mine, but of all those who live on same piece of land as me.
They forgot to tell me to fight and argue
in the name of and for the sake of people
who didn’t care about the fight,
who were fine living the way they did.
I ended up believing
that I could just exist without belonging to any shore
and maybe make my own
and pray that no one joins me
and turn my life into something to live by.
How could they have overlooked this ,
didn’t they foresee how I would sit awkwardly
midst strangers and have nothing to say
about how the world was run.
Would they consider me silly,
would they think that I am shallow
if I was thinking about the fictional character from a story
and his conflicts?
Would they judge me if the story in question was not about
wars, rivalry or mid-life crisis
but one of romantic ones with cheesy lines
that everyone seems to detest?
They should have told me to memorize lines from papers
and opinion columns
and pass it as my own,
when I was not interested to form opinions
on topics that seemed to be of grave importance to others.
I should know better than to write poems on love and sadness
when people are dying around me.
But I don’t.
I think I may have been brought up the wrong way
and there is nothing I can do about it now.
But I am not even sure whether
I want to fix the things
that I asked to feel ashamed of.
I checked my diaries
for the hints of regrets,
for the eroding structures of demands
I once made from life.
I checked my skin for the trace of scars-
the remains of the unreasonable
yet necessary decisions.
The sharp bleeding memory
of the blade,
of the hatred I inflicted on myself.
I checked the outline of my mother’s lips
do they finally approve of what I am.
While I eat all three meals
that were supposed to keep me full,
I wait for the forgiveness that never comes.
that my heart
(half eaten by my self loathing)
can never grant.
They make me grow a forest of hate
and leave me there to die.
They give me tiny drops of love
so for getting more I can try.
So that I try and know the taste
of the words that are stamped on my existence
by the eyes of those
who decide what I can be and where I can go.
They tell me all the thing gone wrong
just because people like me shouldn’t be born.
They slash my skin
to check my blood
and are disappointed to find it red