Wildflower

There was an age

When my eyes would lose your eyes,

At night, to my pillowcase,

And by the morning, as the sky celebrates

Its 4.54 billionth coronation

By adorning a sun as mark of legislation;

By the morning, you’d evaporate.

 

I would recollect you

Amidst afternoon-ish hours and twilit minutes

From lovers in café queues

From under dusty vows, and from all things untrue,

But as the sky would observe

Ink trickling out of the new monarch’s nerves,

Upon my pillowcase, you’ disappear from view.

 

But now, you’re archived,

Stacked neatly on the shelves of my subconscious

Since the last time I cried;

Stored in mason jars like old, stuttering Christmas lights.

No, I cannot lose you anymore,

For now my eyes have given up on downpour

And in this restrained tempest, you hide.

 

I can no longer cry you out of my system, I cannot rip you out of my skin,

 

For I’m afraid you’re braided into my soul

Like wildflowers in the hair of a 6 year old.

 

 

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Steam

Steam, woman, steam.

 

Like a cup of tea

with tulsi leaves.

Like the glass of milk on a wedding night,

yellow with haldi.

Like hot iron pressed upon a saree.

Like the bubbling, simmering pot of kheer,

the taste of which measures the worth of your existence

while you stand behind a curtain

 and watch the men eat greedily.

Steam away woman, steam

Like the choo choo train meant only to carry.

Like hot water that takes off oily sheen

from his clothes and his plates and everything else you clean.

Like the output of a geyser you turn on at 5 every morning

for the man of the house to shower luxuriously.

Woman, steam.

Like vapor that rises but cannot be seen.

Like the atmosphere in a pressure cooker spurting out screams.

Like the insides of a sauna in which you sit, suffocating,

only so that nothing separates your bones from skin,

to make you fit into his fantasy.

Steam.

In the bedroom with nothing covering your body,

spreading out your legs like you spread the table for dinner every night,

only for him to satisfy his needs.

In the only hour of the day when you’re allowed to breathe

and that too only to assure him of his masculinity.

 

Don’t you dare think

you are known for what you hold within.

A world where you’re not supposed to be sexy

will exist in nothing but your dreams.

And if you ever live to see the revolution

make sure until then

you look ‘hot’,

make sure until then,

you steam.

 

 

 

 

For Everyone Who’s Been Through Bad Times

It doesn’t matter if you are 12, or if you are 34. Heartbreak happens whenever. Don’t listen to them when they tell you that you’re too young to know about love, or pain, because you know something right now and that ‘something’ would be your everything if you were to die tomorrow. I’ve seen 50 year old people getting their chests ripped open and their hearts squished to pulp and so they would never consider your agony painful enough, but it is. It’s sad that people measure pain. It’s sad that humans have to assign quantities to abstractness, but what’s happy without sad?

The point is, what you feel right now is absolute destruction. Infinite emptiness. You don’t want to do anything, or meet anyone. You’re hungry but you don’t want to eat. It’s one of the hardest days for your body because it’s trying its best to keep you alive. Your heart, even though it’s ripped to shreds and residing at the pit of your stomach, is trying to pump blood through every vein you’ve tried to cut. Your lungs, the ones that are now dyed black from the smoke of every cigarette you’ve ever lit, are still struggling to make you breathe between your muffled sobs.

What does this tell you?

You might not believe it, but your body knows when it’s time for the full stop. That’s why some people survive the most fatal of diseases, and some people die of the most harmless of reasons. If it’s supposed to continue, the body will accept the help of a tiny pill, and if it’s not, it will reject a bypass surgery. That’s why miracles happen, because our bodies don’t give up until they’re supposed to.

I’ll be honest, life gets worse. I felt terrorizing pain when I was 12, and I got over it. Now I’m 16, and I feel way worse. I feel numb. But I’m glad I didn’t give up when I was 12, because that pain was not worth it. And I know this pain that I feel now, isn’t worth it either.

Your greatest fears of today, will be your ‘better times’ tomorrow, I promise you.

Life can only get worse once it gets better, and trust me, the worst can’t ever be worth death, but the slightest better is always going to be worth life.

You’re still alive, if you’re reading this. And that means it’s not the end. And it’s not going to be the end until it’s the end. I won’t tell you to be happy, because I struggle with it just as much, but I know that you will be. One day.

And that day, you will not regret it – you will no longer regret life.

All I Want For Christmas

This year didn’t really start that well. I was in the middle of questioning my very own existence when it begun, in fact. I had a very different idea of how it would go, provided that I didn’t picture myself seeing most of it. But oh, I did, and rather amusingly, I don’t regret it. I do regret doing and saying a few things along the way, many in fact, but breathing is definitely not a part of that list.

The one thing I regret the most is pushing people away. I was so scared of getting too attached and then feeling hurt that I started to hurt just to protect myself from it. My biggest fear became my most powerful weapon, my fastest gun, my sharpest knife, and it was only after I turned into an abstract sociopath that I realized I was better off when I was disarmed. Vulnerability too has its own pleasures.

Set your soul free to get hurt and you’ll find it falling in love even more.

Or at least wait for its wounds to heal before you put it behind bars, and you’ll find that you don’t want to anymore.

I wish I could go back in time and un-lose all the people I’ve lost this year because it was because of one person that I let in that I’m still breathing. Letting my walls down was the most beautiful thing that ever happened to me, so much so, I wish I did it more.

I fell in love with life while waiting for it to end.

And all I want for Christmas is to never hurt someone again.

The OTHER Kind of Homophobia

Disclaimer: For humans, this can trigger hate towards the author. Content is open to all kinds of subjectivity. This piece is a work of reality and applies mostly to the author.

Now, if you didn’t close the tab after reading the disclaimer, I bless you. If you didn’t read the disclaimer, I bless you too; it was by far the worst one I’ve seen.

Anyway, I got this pair of shoes just a few days ago and I’ve never received hate in such colossal quantity from a non living object before. Considering the fact that I‘m a good 4’10, the only good thing they’ve done to me is made me look a bare 5’2.

See, I’m the kind of person who values comfort more than anything – Anything except being treated my age (People generally think I’m 12). And besides that, no matter how much I want to, I can never pull off a pair of converse with an elegant black dress.

People generally suggest me to cover up for my lack of beauty with my abundance of personalities (I possess a lot of those), but that would mean having to spark up conversations and I try to avoid human contact as much as possible. I mean, we, as a community, as in all of mankind, are a bunch of VERY fucked up beings. I don’t know if it is general Homo sapiens tendency to be that messed up, or if I’ve just had encounters with very strange people in my life, but I’m very terrified of getting to know the mess and falling in love with it.

I guess I’m kind of Homo-sapiens-phobic.

In short: I fear knowing how screwed people are and still falling for them and then getting hurt and so I choose the give a pair of stilettos the right to hurt me because it’s easier than the other kind of hurt.

Signin’ out

THAT girl.