Would you bring me no flowers coz I like them more in gardens, pots, and much less in hands but be blushingly sensitive to not come empty handed? Would you compliment just enough for me to not get embarrassed but also feel noticed? Would you wear the prettiest smile so I know you had been exceptionally giggling on your way of coming over with a mere thought of seeing me? Would you forever be grateful to universe for me being a part of this world right when you are existing? Would you be understanding that I am not complicated or weird—I just crave attention in simplest ways possible?
Sis, you become 200% attractive when you get comfortable in your skin. So, make the sound of your heels clacking worthwhile and tread forward. Happy Women’s Day, Ladies 💖
Sometimes it’s too much to bear. This anxiety. What does it trying to tell me?? I pledged to myself that I won’t run away from my emotions but lately this promise had been really hard to keep.
And what happens when I face them— this weird sensation in my stomach, this uneasiness doesn’t tell me if something good is going to happen or bad?? I’m unsure. For me, it hadn’t been a red alert for only adversities but had encompassed its root for good things too that is bound to come my way— ruining it before it could start.
And I spent hours and hours and more hours deciphering what it’s trying to tell me. Somewhere, over the other side of bridge there is someone waiting but I know I would never cross it because I am pretty sure I will drown in the middle. First steps aren’t the problem for me but tangibility of bridges have always been unreliable for the giver. And I fall, I drown, I gasp, I cry no one comes for help. Not even the soul I saw on the other side — who, in all consciousness, still trying to make sense if I am worth saving.
It scares me. It will happen all over again. It scares me that I am going to try jump across without any fear though I am terribly scared of water (but in reality probably of staying unloved and unwanted pretending to be seasons—unbothered by anyone). I will make tresses of my hair to overcome the distance if need be knowing its going peak out the pain in my roots. But it petrifies me. This vicious cycle of mine, the result of which I never learn, the result which is non-existent. You can’t tame a wild heart, can you? maybe console for a bit while but it’s going to run on its horses again the moment you let it.
Living holding the things in cage isn’t living either. So what do you do? You let your heart run wild. With zero directions, no navigational skills and stupid bravery. And I will let it too. I fear it.
From where do I even start? Talking about the cradles that adults aren’t support to use.
Tell me how deep do I need to dig before I extract courage directly from the heart of the earth using my bare, muddy hands?
When can I rest in the arms of worry-less world when stopping to catch a breath feels guilty?
I have a home, an abode with all the amenities of the world. And I love staying there as long as I can. But my imagination is dying taking away my home with it.
I wish I could find a cure, a cure to release resentments, a cure to procure more love, a cure so that I never need one because we all know a cure is wanted only after meeting terrible tragedies.
There is no urge in me to prove a point in any conversation I have. I just want to hear. I want to listen to distorted views, their stories of idleness, of debatable topics, of their overwhelming work, of funny clothes, of childhood Sundays, of them as rock and crumbling under pain, of messy kitchen after super savoury meal, of their insufferable colleague, of their escape sanctuaries- being a part of their emotional rainbow. I want to hear how they tell their stories. I want to hear sigh when they draw breath while talking something painful. I want to hear with the chin on their knees. I want to hear and I want to be heard.
It’s a bedspread and a hanging roof, Thoughts when I can’t hold my head high. A bed of thousands rough hills and hundred ways to crush them under thin ice. Or I just write poetry murdering their morale sipping ugliness from the hem of my skirt.
Sitting across the table they mock the way I handle my butter knife, or the depth of my blouse, or the unnecessary forks I never give them. I could easily mishandle my cards and land that flipping knife in their soft, filthy, world-doesn’t-need gut. I thought they were bad people. Is it too late for me to not be W-I-C-K-E-D?
I just wanna have fun! One line, two lines and then three all I see is boundaries. Why there is a stranger on my face? Why there is a stranger on my legs? You no pretty, You burn butterflies into ashes with you stare. My slap on your cheek and I am a drunk H-Y-P-O-C-R-I-T-E.
I sprawl across the bed un-gently, motionless sinking in Salem issues. Orthodox minds and shrewdness raises me every night. The demonic presence in your heads, work of evil on your tongues incinerated fresh hopes, innocent fates, begging hands, kissing lips and you called us W-I-T-C-H-E-S.
The roof hangs like a bodiless head what does it want? Want me to pick myself up? Before the rage engulfs me or be scared of a grotesque face that makes me stay low. But I am not afraid. I am contemplating fitting you in this bed box as your forever tomb.
Melting in your arms, We snapped the best picture of us for Instagram. That night we fought a lot and sat on stairs to have our first uncomfortable adult conversation.
We danced to our heart’s content and partied through the night. I fell sick and you tended to me for couple of days so I could party again, healthily.
My Red floral dress perfectly matched your grey suit and they complimented us for being a perfect couple. That evening we both changed into cozy tracksuits and watched FRIENDS together for the hundredth time.
We showed off our cocktails to the world cheering our anniversaries. But the time I’m grateful for you is when you remind me to drink water everyday.
Night movie shows capture how lovely of a couple we make. But fight over UNOs, snake and ladders and video games bonded us better.
I was congratulated for best of my achievements. And then there was you patting me on my days filled with anxieties and ugly running noses for having a courage to dream.
November is a wetty month dropping it’s soul on the last pages of my diary.
Tears corroding the page, shrinking the size of my heart, and changing its shape into a small mailbox functional only on weekdays with no space for chocolates or ribbons but for greetings from afar then be empty for one-year eternity.
November is a wetty month. It soon will end All dried out the rains, the tears not sure which one is worse.
