Things are looking up.

Regardless of feeling too much, i can’t bring myself to write.

Putting my feelings into words makes me anticipate that some bad piece of reality is going to twist them somewhere down the line. That, my happiness would be jinxed if i laid it on paper.

So, no textual records of my happiness exist. Only fleeting memories of jovial days, and nostalgic reminices about the past find their mention: in my consciousness, or my journal.

So here. This is me, putting forward a word of positivity; of hope. I’m at peace, and i haven’t felt so shitty in the past couple of days.

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Numbers.

Please know:
You will be a measure-
I will quantify you
And put numbers on the way you make me feel
And weigh every fault of mine
On a scale before
Serving it you.
You will turn into a
Measure of time;
I will chronicle
The chapters of my life
before and after you.
As if nothing quite the same as us
Ever came to exist.
The moments
Run past us in a blink.
Like a gentle wind,
Trying to whisper into my hear
To hold on tight and not let go.
You see my life has been a linear,
Simplistic timeline before you
And right now everything
Feels so muddled up like
We were tangled in the
Threads of my own thoughts.
After you, i’m afraid
I will think of all the times we had
And count every single mistake
That lead us closer to the final breaking.
And when you have finally left
I will close my eyes and
Count back to ten
Hoping that you would return.

Searching

i’m urging for a home
i never seem to find.
itching for the comfort
that let’s me melt into who I am.
but I never seem to find
the place
the person,
or is it words?
maybe I’m looking for
home in the seclusion
of four walls that
converge at corners
facing away in anger.
maybe i’m looking for
home in the arms of
my ex-lover;
maybe i’m searching the
drawers for old letters
that might bind me
to a true origin story.
maybe, yes, i long for homeliness
in the sound of some words-
the comfort,
and luxury of the knowledge that
someone’s here for me;
that they’re going to be
there for me.
a steady rock, no walls
or cement or compromises;
no holding back;
someone I can snuggle into
on Sunday mornings
and drive to work with
on Mondays.
someone who says,
all my favorite things
in our native language of comfort:
love.

The Best of Ilusions

tonight
I’m awake
connecting stars
to make constellations
I fathomed you’d name after me;
missing you like
I wish you would someday
miss me.
Hoping,
on the darkest of days
when nothing feels right
you would sit with me
under the dim light
of those very stars
and chant my name like gospel
holding my ghost hand,
restless to have me back
like wishing upon a star
that is no longer there.

-on how staying awake too long leads to the best of illusions. From a note to you I’ll never write.

Wax Doll

a wax doll
cowering beneath
your touch-
your touch is
the crackle of a match
striking volatility,
and lighting afire
every last wick
of my vulnerability;
my surface deftly
moving away,
drifting, like water
makes space for
bigger things-
and you’re the one that
brings life and death
anger and passion
at the same instant;
and so, I quiver away,
wax doll,
shy of fire,
hiding with shame,
running away to save grace.
i let you burn every inch of me,
and you, annihilate.
but what will you ever be
without me?

To that lady, in the metro.

to the lady sitting beside me in the metro,
talking incessantly;
(you might just read these words as I write them if you lean and snoop;)
the ability to communicate through speech
is a unique ability evolution has gifted our breed after an intense test of time;
we have earned this,
so we could utilize it
in careful and productive ways
that serve humanity
help us live fruitful lives
and somehow keep us from causing discomfort and inconvenience to others?
what made you reserve ALL your travelling hours for casual chitchat you could have done without?
you, babbling on breathlessly,
meadering between topics and snacking on “did you know what she did”
feels like someone coercing food down my throat when
my stomach is already more than half full
and mouth crammed with a vomit full of syllables I’d like to scream at you.
Because I cannot digest gossip for the life of me,
and wouldn’t consume it, even
if it was the last thing left on the earth to eat.
something, about the sound of your voice
makes my ears bleed, my stomach churn
but I stay put, weigh the odds to get up and leave,
and then don’t,
because no one wants to lose their metro seat.