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

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Skin

Skin

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

Soliloquize

Soliloquize

Sometimes…
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…
Inside.

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

Combustion

Combustion

For every utterance
Would raise a smoke
And I, emaciated from the lack of
Warmth,
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

Silence(d)

Silence(d)

I was sixteen when my mouth
Was forced open
With an unfamiliar tongue, dripping of lust;
Chapped lips,
Violently brushing against mine…

Hands.
Hands.
Hands.

I belched enough saliva,
As I watched my guilt trickle down the drain
To accumulate
In a cesspool
Of blood, tears and similar tales.

Buses, trams, metros…
Invisible hands.
Ghost hands.
Under my skirt.
On my breasts.
Around my hips.
Everyone. Wants. It.
A bit of it.
A lot of it.
ALL of it, if they could.
Devouring,
With eyes and leers and
Unsolicited hands up my thighs…

What do you even do with scars
That no make-up can hide?
I poured them
In cologne bottles
To put it away in a cool, dry place
At the back of my mind.

And we are urban fireflies
In a concrete jungle
With several, greedy hands,
Lusting to taste our light.

17 October 2017

Matryoshka

Matryoshka

The calm, unperturbed body
Is the first layer.
Perfect eyes, lips, skin.
Perfect clockwork smile.

Skin…

I peel off my skin with the kitchen knife sometimes
To make sure if I still reside
In me.
I make sure if my walls are soundproof,
My windows, bulletproof,
And my attic, decluttered and ready
To hide my chaos…

I have locked in my chaos
In the wardrobe of I am fine
In the iron trunk of I am exaggerating
In the bureau drawer of It’s just a phase.

It is not a phase.

By the time you have reached
The second layer,
You will try to second-guess the restlessness in my blank orbs,
You will try to figure out why I am a problem,
You will try to calculate the equation of my violent sobs.
But you will give up
At the third layer…

And I won’t blame you
For not even trying to venture
Into the fourth, fifth, sixth…
Because your eyes will speak what I have always known –
My mind is a barren land
Of plastic bag relationships and open sewers of insecurity.

But don’t you worry –
You will never go beyond the first layer
Anyway.

10 October 2017

Switch

Switch

Autumn was crammed carelessly
On the shelf of Transition
Where she sat, uncomfortably,
Between hurts and healing.

***

There is barely enough leg space
On the days I want climb up the shelf
And look down at the world below;
Humans appear less condescending,
Less selfish,
Less ignorant.
They usually do not.

***
Between Summers and Winters,
I was Autumn –
A phase.
My transient words sound like lies,
Once mixed with spirits.
So I pour it back and fasten the cork –
I am inebriation,
Wrapped in innocent banter.

***
Autumn was a paramour
Dangling from wires of
Maybes and probablys…

…Hoping its crimson
Would mean something
Someday…

8 October 2017