the rains of these kind
that starts with loss and longing
that won’t slow down
won’t shut up
these rains are so much like me
so much like you
indifferent and cruel
i have found another song today
that somehow floats
above the static of this world
i have found another shelter
that fools me into believing
that my sadness is something i can run from
that we will stop belonging to each other
just because we decided to
Tag Archives: nayana nair poem
the rains of these kind
the i cannot see you
without this night,
for you are not my sun
but only it’s reminder.
i can be the person you love
only as long as you love be back,
as long as my heart wants to forget the past
and the owner of my heart.
in your glory
i always fall short.
i yearn to love someone like me,
someone who plans the escape route
while uttering the words
of half-hearted embellished confession.
i don’t want to be healed
my scars are my name
that i fear to lose
as much as i fear losing you
as much as you want me
you should learn to hate me more
your benefit of doubt is wasted on me
as is your love.
i have so many reasons
and so many feelings
that are at war with each other-
a war that i wish you’d win somehow.
i do love you
in some conditional yet selfless way,
there is a sincerity in my love-
a sincerity that won’t do your heart any good.
On Sundays, I wear the purple summer dress
that I once promised myself I would never wear.
I paint my nails, I color my lips, and I open the windows in me.
I become someone I was taught to hate, I try to break
my hatred with my smile.
I let myself be reigned
by the greed for beautiful, sweet, shining things.
I think of all the things I have tried not to want.
I let myself be the delicate vulnerable woman
that is easy to love, easy to idolize,
easy to abuse, easy to blame, and easy to hate.
I tell myself that it is not my fault,
but the more I live the harder it becomes to believe it.
I fall asleep on the floor where first I tasted blood,
wondering why I can never give up on this dress, this dream
that has given me nothing but hurt.
“i was born like this”, I lie,
when I really want to say
“the normal ones, the sane ones
are surprisingly excellent at
breaking anyone without any guilt whatsoever.
i no longer have strength
to leave them, or beg them,
or handle the repercussion of wanting them.
i fear them only when i cry
though i am not exactly sure why it should be so.
the positivity, the kindness, the unity, the charity, the world peace
that they talk about
looks so beautiful when put in action
there are holes in me though i have never seen a bullet in my life
and i am not allowed to say it is their doing
“it is a result of my negative thinking and bad karma” i parrot
like i have been taught to.
this burnt skin, this distrustful heart,
the layers of clothes that are prerequisite of proving my modesty
if god-forbid i let loose an animal in someone just because i exist,
the logs of missed calls and blocked calls and blocked memories
that are the only things protecting me now.
this is how i was born.“
Though absurd, it sounds like truth the more I say it.
This is how I hurt whatever is left of my heart.
I heard her again complain about warm hands.
A hand that remains warm, always warm,
so warm that it almost becomes a fault, a flaw.
That it turns into blame, into words that make no sense-
“I could have loved him if he was not so good.
Good is suspicious. Good is bland.
Good is you when you try to be something you are not.
He cannot know my heart, if he cannot be human enough to sin”, she said.
I wonder why I never met them – the bland people
who would be good for my heart, whom I seek in every hand I touch.
Maybe I confused grand gestures, big promises, passionate gaze
for goodness too many times.
I wonder if it is just my weakness, my weariness
that now wants someone harmless to live along with.
I prod and push the glass slowly, carefully
to the edge of the table,
where your glass stands.
At the edge where you place your suitcase,
where you always tie your laces once again
just to be sure.
That is the place you tell me to love
when you think I might lend something of me
to keep such place alive,
to keep you warm while you keep the door open
like the way the you like them to be.
This is the place you tell me to forget
when the color of my skin doesn’t match the color of your new sky,
when your new birds keep singing songs
of ‘soulmates’ with better specification
when it becomes your new caller tune,
when you think of the best version of your life.
You think of that too often, quite loudly
for me to really forget anything.
This is all I remember of you:
“i never thought you were weak enough to need anyone or anything.”
“i thought you were wise enough, i thought you were better than your gender.“
“call me. meet me. i am feeling down.“
“call me. meet me. listen to me, no one else does. only you have ever cared.“
“call me. meet me. i want us to end.“
“you are too much for me. you are too little in the eyes of anyone in this world.“
“you are so close to having my fickle demanding unfair love, why do you ruin everything by being yourself.
i would have loved you for 2 more years, if you were not messed up.“
When I think of the glasses, of my life, of everything
that I dangerously left at the edges
just to be your equal, just to make sense of you-
I am glad I have claimed back my madness
instead of trying to understand yours.
I am glad I do not have to live my life
compensating for your weakness, calling it love.