You know how I was ripped to pieces,

when you left?

Let me tell you the tale of embroidery.


Once upon a sorrowful existence,

an existence that witnessed the presence

of your love

only to later bear somehow with the absence of it,

I decided to never let another soul,

another’s inside come even as near as to touch my outside,

I decided to never let another soul touch even my skin.


Once upon a sorrowful existence,

watching your footprints lead, and leave, into the horizon,

my psyche deconstructed into pieces with fraying edges,

as if your love was an unseen strength that fabricated

my entire existence.

Of course my thoughts were bound by cowardice,

I couldn’t afford to be reduced to shreds.


Once upon a sorrowful existence,

I told myself I couldn’t deal with being walked in on, and walked out of,


Apparently, upon the same sorrowful existence,

I also realized that a ripped cloth

could only be sewed

if it’s brave enough to withstand the piercing of a needle,

inside, outside, and

through its weaves.


So then, upon a transitional existence,

I let them in, the masses, with their threads of colors

that my mind didn’t even know how to procure,

and I let them go, leaving behind little stitches,

till the pieces of

my inner self

were no longer hanging off the edges of my bed.


And now, upon this gorgeous existence,

I take the needle in my hand and etch upon my skin, the story of my existence – the tale of



Too Brave to Burn

If fire could crash upon land like waves do –

It is her, and only her, who could conjure

and dismiss the blaze

as if it were a mere symphony.

It is she, and only she, who could walk

barefoot on the seashore

as if it wasn’t smitten with destruction.

Only her, who could stand

unfaltered with singed toes

as if the flames had left love bites.

Only she, who could gaze

at the tempestuous flickering

as if it resembled twilight-ish hues.

If fire could rise and fall like tides do –

She was the only one brave enough to still love the ocean,

for her body knew soot better than a cremated corpse,

and her heart beat at the rate of a hundred explosions a minute.