in her two storey house my doll sleeps on her silk sheets with a knife resting beside her. it shines as if newly delivered and never used, as if sharpened hundred times, as if it has known the pain of blood every night, every night cleaned under the deafening noise of running tap water. the metal mixes with her fears, with her trembling hands. something again slips from her grasp. and now it is time for tears, and it will be soon time for cycles of search and paranoia. there is a time for every madness in her mind. there is always a calm wait before she reaches the next stage of hopelessness. there is always a party hosted at the dead end of her lives where she takes another drink, and finds hands filled with warmth and eyes that like the color of her healing skin, the burned tips of her tongue, and her swallowed words equally. but someone utters the wrong word, looks at her the wrong way, leaves the taps water, filled with smell of blood, running in her mind again, and again she lunges for the the knife that fits in her hand better than any hope and again she ends the song of her lover, again she wakes up alone.
I wish I could hug back the stars with a smile even if it burns, even if I suffer in that light.
But it is a light that I have now learnt to fear. Now I know the power of reality, of wounds, and the unbearable noise of past.
Now my every step towards my fear, towards you can never be love, it can only be a sacrifice. It can only mean my acceptance of my end at the cost of this love that promises to live on without me. Should I find comfort in that, now that I won’t find a life with you?
On my closed hopeless eyes you placed your lips and something in me broke open. And I burst from within, from all my prisons. From all my pseudo homes I heard myself crying.
I heard the the noises of television in the heavy air of my living room die out, I heard myself breathe. I heard the knocks on my door and found all my lost selves staring at me one second, embracing me the next.
They told me it could be the blue moon, it could be the cyclone that is running wild, it could be the end of earth predicted too many times, it could be flowers-that-no-one-loves blooming in our land, it could my restlessness and fear of being left behind, it could be you.
As you sink into the couch, forgetting the nail you painted seconds before, as you look around frantically for remote, as you leave the evidence of beautiful color on my skin, I realized, that I found in myself the honesty to say out aloud, to tell you, to accept that it is probably you.
I regret to tell you this that the blue sky that you died for is not longer blue. It is painting its face with remains of our greed, with the colors of our wars. But it is still sort of fair. It is trying hard not to choose sides, not to become the flags that unites only those whose favorite words are ‘future’, ‘safety’,’money’, ‘greatness’, while they clutch in their hands the fate of people they don’t identify with- ‘burden’ they call them. ‘Fear’ is another favorite word of theirs. They don’t speak much of it, but it is most useful or at least that’s what I have heard from the ones we are no longer allowed to call out or even mock. I have lost every bit of my passive aggressiveness. Life has become more bearable now that my skin is not broken for making too much noise, now that we have learnt to hold each other’s tongue so that we may not lose more friends than we already have. I regret to tell you that your dreams will remains dreams and you might be one of the last to know how dreams felt in your eyes, how tomorrow used to change by effort.
All objects that I possess have stopped doing what they were meant to do. The window doesn’t bring me new air. The bed doesn’t give me rest. The glass filled with water and handful of pills promise me disconnection from reality, sleep, or even death but never the rest that I so want. The words on my books run around on pages, hating my gaze. The music breaks itself into disjointed string on noises.
It is as if one night while I lay trying to forget you, they voted and decided to forget me unanimously. They agreed and concluded that if someone must be forgotten it is me. So now they rebel, they serve only purpose- to remind me of all I lost simply by losing you.
The noise of the crumpled tissues walked upon
fills me up again.
Without the colors of reasons or pain
that once made it unbearable,
I envy that me who could be so passionately
sad for the someone else
or even for myself.
Now the the rivers of concern run beneath the surface of my heart
almost lost, in hiding.
(Or am I the one in hiding.)
For long I have lived
avoiding a lot in life.
The sting of disappointment.
The pointless chatter that becomes
a habit. A lovely company.
The colors that didn’t suit me,
colors that I loved just the same.
But now I miss the life in my heart
and the pain that made skies and stars more bright,
that made earth more warm, and love more necessary.
If I memorized
all the tones that drifted in from
a world of happiness
we are no longer inhabitants of,
the tones that drip ever so slowly
filling our heart with love
and filling our life with pain,
the tone that ripples through
every word I weigh on my tongue.
all the tones
that resonates in me as the wind passes
through the places in my heart
where your laughter once lived,
all the tones
that separate bird cry and bird song.
I think I would find the song we lost,
the song we sought
that we could never hear
in the noise of our shouts.
And though our love is dead
I would like this song
to have a home to rest.
As for our love,
what is lost is probably
lost for best.
It was more or less like waiting
Only there was no excuse of distance between them
Though they walked hand-in-hand,
this was not all they could be.
Just like noises of traffic merging in the call of birds.
They knew the love they want and the love they have
was not so much different.
It was more or less the same.
Or at least they soon will be.
It was not a question of which person.
It was a question of
And they have not lived an eternal life
to believe in eternal love.
But they kept it in mind
played with this idea,
made fun of it,
wished for it.
As they wait for their love to
become bigger than themselves,
they have no choice but to be who they are
and live the life they know.
Soon this love will numb their pain.
But it takes time for poison to work.
But it will.
It always has.
Poison, too, can be a medicine.
It is just a matter of