“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.
You were the most imperfect person I ever met
and have made me believe that I am worse.
Or maybe I saw too much of you.
that you made me feel sick of you,
sick of myself,
and sick of whatever they call love.
You stumbled around
walking over my feelings,
drunk on your pride
and your sense of entitlement,
threw away what I treasured
because obviously you knew better,
called me insane
called me names
when I called you out on your hypocrisy.
Waking up next morning
expecting another day of a convenient love
with this inconvenient woman.
One day, that day won’t come.
The morning told me that
there are times when we loose a grasp of what we are,
when we feel inadequate for all we have
and slowly all that we have seems to abandon us
even if they are beside us.
I knew what it was saying, I knew what it meant
But I didn’t want to hear it being said.
I wanted lies that could keep me going,
not an echo of reality.
I wish I could go back to sleep,
go back to being myself
(whatever that meant).
“But there is no going back”, the morning said.
“There is only effort, there is only wait.
There would be a morning that won’t be as cruel as me.
But till that morning comes,
there is only effort, there is only wait.”