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“feelings suspended in the void of my heart” – Nayana Nair

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Everything you do,
everything I say
is suspended in the layers
of admiration and disbelief.
What I feel lies somewhere between
“the love that is” and “the love that cannot be”.
This place,
where my uncertain feelings live,
here you will find my many graves
and here I will die again.
Not because your love can’t save me,
but because I doubt every heart
that holds me too dear,
I want to run away from this love
that is ready to die with me.

“Remaining Life” – Nayana Nair

Hand me back my fear.
Remove all signs of caution.
Anyway, I am dying slowly.
I don’t want to know more.
I don’t want to know better.
Come into my mind.
Here there is no better.
There are only picture frames that do not break
even when they have lost the images they lived for.
It is not the persisting lack in me that makes me feel hollow.
It is the life remaining in my dying organs,
all the reasons that I have for living,
my willingness to invent a reason if needed.
All the substance that hides my lacking
highlights the vacancy in me.

“I could learn to be yours” – Nayana Nair

You walk into this room
and all eyes that have not met yours
continue to gaze at everything
that is crumbling and dying.
All eyes but mine.
I can only look at you.
My eyes like only your light.
If you would have me,
if you would want to have me,
I could learn to be happy,
I could learn to love.
In every room,
in every gaze,
in every life
you are all I want.

“Thoughtless Scribbles” – Nayana Nair

Do not scribble thoughtlessly
your name on these walls.
Don’t make yourself at home
if you don’t plan to stay.
I am not someone who has learnt to let go
of anything I value.
I am not someone who will close my heart
only because it hurts.
I wear my insanity in glittering colors
and that is how I will be even after I die.

So before you take my hand
and tell me the words you have told
to a thousand girls before,
know that though I am not crazy enough
to ruin your life if you leave,
but I am crazy enough to ruin mine
and my misery and my pain
will make your heart bleed.
(I turn out to be pretty lovable
even when I don’t look like it.)

There is a reason I don’t speak much.
There is a reason I keep my distance-
it is to save this world from few more sad poems.
I travel from exhilaration to distress, to new deaths
in matter of minutes,
don’t take my hand
if you can’t tag along.

“No Other Choice” – Nayana Nair

When I held your hands,
you told me I am calculating.

When I listened to your worries
you told me that it is because
I have no other choice,
because I have no one else anyway.

When I cried
you told me I am manipulating.

When I speak of my feelings for you,
you tell me that I am afraid of loneliness,
of dying alone.
That a person like me can never love anyone.

I wish I could say that it is all in your mind,
that I am not evil as you speak.
I want to say that my love for you is true,
that I am not all that bad.

But as you said
I have no one,
no one to tell me that
I am only as bad as everyone else is,
no one to tell me that
I can still be loved.

I have only you
and now to love you
I have to learn
to hate myself first.

“Send You Away” – Nayana Nair

I bask in the sunlight
of borrowed memory.
I grieve in the arms
of your dying words.
I find another piece of myself
to send you away with
and I wonder why I feel empty
even though you have given me your all.

“Just Poems” – Nayana Nair

My mind that understands
is chained and crippled by its understanding.
It only tries to understand new words
by comparing it to
what has already written or read.
It only understands feelings in terms of
the pain it has given
or all it has suffered.

-o-

So when I stand in front of the doors of a poem
feeling the sting of December winds on my back.
When I ring the doorbell
and hear from other side “May I come inside?”
I immediately know that this not something
that I understand,
that there is a difference
in reading as if
sitting on the couch in a stranger’s house
waiting to be entertained
and reading as if
I have let the stranger in my own mind
and allowed him to change
the view I have of this world.

-o-

Some poems are not just poems.
They are voices that never die
because they have never been born.
They are ghosts that we have always wanted to haunt.
They are names we give to our own suffering,
a closure that only we can give to ourselves.

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