A Parable of Loose Ends

A Parable of Loose Ends

To every three times I contemplate suicide,
On the fourth, I look up at the cotton-candy clouds and realise
How some habits are as vaguely delightful as pink, sticky fingers,
Covered in grime and longingness.

I am a euphemism for escapism;
I delight in playing noughts and crosses with my panic attacks and anxiety –
Whoever wins, I lose.

If I could be a punctuation mark,
I’d be an ellipsis…
For all the unfinished sentences and interruptions
That contorted themselves and snuggled under my skin
Like monologues I dissected at the operation table,
Desperate to find an answer.

My depression cloaks herself like Snow White’s stepmother
And presents me with the poison apple of self-doubt –
Only I sink my teeth into it, mistaking it for Hope.

People who try to tell you that mosaics and kaleidoscopes are beautiful
Are often the ones who use ‘broken’ as a synonym to describe people –
Little clockwork toys
With the spring twisted the wrong way,
For isn’t it carnage, regardless,
Even if you hemorrhage internally?

Between you and me,
We don’t kiss and tell if it was more cigarettes or regrets;
We let the embers die and try to trace a constellation of what remains.

19 June 2018




Even silence, was once a noise
Forced to seal its mouth
With a duct tape
For screams should be stifled
Stuffed down…
Down your throat
Deep in, and walled.
Your arms are like waves
That leave me inundated –
I often forget how seaweeds have no place
To breathe
On the surface, where everything looks perfect
Like manicured nails on Sunday brunch
With twenty odd faces and fatuous smiles –
I’ve never been more lonely
In a crowd.

I dream of quiet afternoons and a dozen tales
Where I am shuffling in the background
As a mirage to unseeing eyes
And mine, looked on, and on
When this sky above our head changes shades
I wonder if you look away
I wonder if you still make
A home out of your unspoken questions
Or you pile them in a dark room
To evade.

Love, I look for you
In every broken frame,
Every unfulfilled wish
Every Autumn sky
I look for you
In every fragment of

2 March 2018



If dreams were tinsel-coloured follies
I would still hold on to them
Until, battered, they would beg
To be released.
I haven’t got used to the dichotomy, yet,
For even in nightmares
I’m holding your hands, even if it is
For a heartbeat.

I love gray skies and to-do lists
Because theoretically, then, I have my life in control
And your voice seems less rusted over the telephone.

I try being transparent
In a crowd of jostling bodies and clammy hands
And I tried swallowing silence
Like sleeping pills
But overdosing was another story
I was not prepared for.

If storms had a colour
It would be two shades lighter
Than the burnout evenings
When you gave me a taste of how
Your Rs roll in your mouth.

25 February 2018



How do I love myself? –
A draggled mess of rotting flesh
Gift-wrapped in a pretty package
Of plastered smiles and frayed dreams
And absurdities –
I have measured my highs
In varied stages of ecstasy
And one of them even made me believe
That my indifference is leading a double life
Torn between

My 2 A.M. self and 6 P.M. beliefs
When my skin changes colour,
Like dull Autumn leaves
No Spring or Summer could be
An Antidote
Or Elixir.

What would you know?
Of violence painted as battle scars
Of monosyllables cloaking my S.O.S
Like a magic trick…
And tomorrow
I won’t look at my hands and wonder
Why my fists weren’t firm enough
To hold back the vestiges
Of our meaningless sighs.

18 February 2018



I seek thrills and frills
In motley distractions
And amnesiac pills –
I roll up into a ball of lies

My heart, a bulbous paperweight
Is a poltergeist in disguise.

For I have the soul of a wretched magpie
Obsessed with your gemstone eyes.
And I bleed…and bleed…and bleed…

Love’s slow death
One gasp at a time,
My tongue grows numb and asinine
In your mouth, I swallow words
And make a count –
I keep a memorabilia of your frowns.

For you mauled my thoughts
With a carving knife.

Unsystematic tales
Have me wrecked in two –
I repeat my sentences till they sound
Like you.

14 February 2018



For every utterance
Would raise a smoke
And I, emaciated from the lack of
Would slowly creep into the furnace
To find my home.

I have cold feet from nightmares
Where I’m falling into an abyss
Of your seduction, your words moisten
My inner thighs –
I’ve stopped looking for distorted mirrors
In the eyes of strangers
Who force my nonchalance
Into tight-fitting clothes
And put me up for show.

I rise in smoke –
An oxymoron.
For in this deafening silence,
We are alone together, tracing outlines
Of our nameless failures
Packed in little boxes with felt pen labels –

We have climbed into the box,
To feel its teeth, sink into our flesh
Tearing us apart,
One memory at a time –

We have toyed with the idea
Of combusting
Our petty narratives
To smoke.

4 February 2018



My edges, once sharp,
When I saw how melancholic your
Skies turned by evening.

I collected your clouds
In tiny satchels and paper bags
And read them like tarot cards –
Your face, in all its mirth,
Was paler than mine
In its sunset hues.

You should see,
How in my lunacy
I crave for your hands to lift my thoughts
And create little Plasticine dolls –
Do you know how much I’d give up,
To go up in smoke?

I dread on the days
My curtains weigh heavier than
The reproaches I hurl at myself
To make my skin bulletproof to your indifference.

I am a mermaid –
My body,
Is torn by halves
Into a minefield and the deep, blue sea.

18 January 2018