Signing off.

Dear moon,
It's been too many days since you've been missing from my skies. You seem to have taken all your moondust to a galaxy i haven't yet known of. But i hope you're doing just fine there.
I hope there's someone in that colossal galaxy who waits for the sun to go to sleep ,and for black to take over the blue skies just to get a glance of you. My darling, you've been outshining my love for for you with all of your hatred.
And all of your freckles seem to sing to me of the melodies Mozart couldn't finish off in his lifetime.
Your eyes gleam and mine burn from your shine. For your shine, is from my pain and you reflect all of it back to me.
Remember that day? When i was in the hospital and you were pretty near? You couldn't come see me, for once.
I hadn't known someone I would've given up my life for, someone i gave up everyone for, would give up on me for people who weren't supposed to stay anyway.
It hurts in my guts- some corner which i can't describe. It hurts like something screwing inside of it and tearing it slowly- tasting each of the cells with melancholia bursting through their sidewalls.
You. Broke me in a way that I bleed poetry through the vessels which long to be anywhere but inside of my body.
My skinshed has been sequinned with misery on the sides of all the voids your fingers have left on me.
And i can't seem to avoid hurt anymore.
The thought of you, and how you're doing fine without me.
The thought of you, and how you were perfectly okay when i was suffering so bad that even my enemies brought chocolates for me.
The thought of you, and how you've never cared enough.
The thought of you, and of what i lost when I lost you- and how you didn't lose anything when you lost me.
It's killing me in ways I don't know how to fight.
But people.
Have been telling me that I can't be where i am in my life- anymore.
I let down my guards and the blame is for me to eat for i would be gone soon.
I've suffered more than i should've and it's about time i bid adieu to my grief.
That i love you? Isn't a sin and i don't deserve to be punished for something which wasn't wrong to start with.
So here i am, telling you I'm leaving with you my heart and i know you won't keep it safe.
But it's okay, because i still love you. And you can keep it as you want.
You can keep my heart. And crush it.
You can keep my heart. For it hurts inside of me.
You can keep my heart.
And.
I'll keep my Sanity.
It's about time. I leave.
Leave.
To never come back.
Signing off
Your lover.

The Mess That We Are.

We wear anxiety in our heads
Like a crown which has known wars
Which has fought the world and scarred the lands long forgotten
Which has known numbness to it's core.

We wear our hearts on our sleeves
And even though we've been pricked too many times
We're still willing to trust you,
With all we're left with of ourselves.

We fall in love and we make LOVE
In a way that the world stops rotating,
And the lights shut themselves
Purity, we call it. Mistakes, you do.

We make love. And you take all of it
Crumble it and throw it in the bin we ash our cigarettes in.
And we? We still hold your chests against ours to feel your cold heart beat
For that is all that keeps ours beating.

You call our love fake, and call us sluts
And we keep loving you from a distance.
We keep praying for you at every holy place we go to
We tell gods to keep an eye on you and protect you from all evil
And you tell people how we've been smothering you.

We love, as you betray, and use, and shatter us.
Because that is pretty much all we've known.

We wear masks which know only smiles on our ugly faces
And fragility on the insides of our souls that know only weeping.

We wear insanity in our arms as we walk towards our graves
Which you only keep digging- deeper
For just as dearly we know love
You know hate.

The Unusual.

I find Beauty in things I shouldn't.
Like death.
The way all of those ten million cells which kept going for you for so many years, Suddenly decide to give up on you.
The way all your organs realise that they have had enough.
The way your breaths know that there is no more space left for them to occupy in this world.
The way your skin knows how the cuts you always carved onto it had finally come to do the needful.
The way your veins and arteries and all of those nerves magically crave peace.
And all of your infinite tiny parts take the rest they always deserved.

And heartbreak.
The way your lover gracefully takes all of your pains and plants the sapling of hope in the garden by the backyard just to poison it with cyanide to seek the pleasure of watching it rot.
The way someone who once bled from your miseries now turns a sadist just for your miseries.
The way hurt seeks Refuge in the shattered dimensions of your soul which plead to be anywhere but your body.
The way a human, who can endure the greatest of tortures gives up the moment they talk of their failure in love.
The way the hiatus isn't ever a full stop.

I find Beauty
In having nothing.
The way then, you are free of anyone- anything that could've chained your brains or your heart
They way then, you would've been yourself because a man is only himself when he knows there's nothing really left for him to lose.

As for me,
There's an altogether different charm in being depressed.
The way you know how it feels to be jailed pretty much before you ever go to a prison. The way the constant Dystopia bleeds poetry into the veins which otherwise surge with just hurt. The way there's only pieces of you you can carry with yourself. Fragments of emotions which pop up spontaneously- anyone at anytime.
The way tomorrow is always suspicious and the way today is always too long.

There's so much artistry in the way self harm consumes a person
For all the scars which lie naked not covered by norms, ethics, morality.
The way your skin cries for you each time your hands can't touch the only guy you have ever loved.
The way truth, is etched onto your being so beautifully that it can never be separated from you.

I find Beauty in everything you run away from.
Because I believe, everything that was created has about itself a splendid feature which could make you fall on your knees.
So next time you decide to open your mouth and spill verses out of it,
Name them nothing but beautiful.

Little too much

She was always a little too much.
A little too much insane. But that's what kept me sane.
Her eyes indecipherable, and that mystic countenance giving away a teensy bit more each time I planted a kiss on it.
She was always a little too much.
She said her belly fat was ugly and reminded her of how she wasn't pretty enough.
And I could do nothing but look at her with my stoned face and laugh.
Laugh because never did she notice how she was this extra dose of everything and how her body would otherwise be too small to house it all.
I laughed because I knew that all her love handles were charismatic, and the skin that hung a little loose below her breasts at the sides was where she kept all her darkest secrets.
And I knew how they were too many in number to be counted and weighed too much to be buried in a 50 kg skinshed.
She was always a little too much.
I remember the night she sobbed about all those stretch marks around her waistline, and arms, and back.
And I grabbed her right in my arms. And told her 'honey, why would you limit your definition beauty to the prescribed norms that God knows who has set? Your stretch marks are gorgeous, trust me. They are evidence of how the moon kissed you on your back, and how the stars aligned themselves on you each night when the sky wasn't huge enough for them.'
And to this she'd say, 'So you think I'm bigger than the sky?' And I'd tickle her chin into sleep and Stargaze at all the reminiscents of the stars and the moon.
She was always a little too much.
That night she fell asleep in my arms as I puffed my cigarettes one after the other trying to understand how my skies had come down to Earth, straight into my arms.
And there, amidst the moon and the stars, I found my home. Right over her belly button. And just as I moved my fingers around it, a meteor shower took place consuming me whole. The smoke from my cigarettes had almost filled the room, and it was my night sky with all celestial objects in one place. My embrace.
She was always a little too much.
The credibility of her being was something I constantly questioned. As for me, I couldn't believe a being so heavenly could exist. Her belly button was such a distraction. Like a vernissage which led to the hallway of her heart which had inside it all the beautiful artworks the world could have ever known. With my fingers dancing to the music of the meteor shower whose origin I assumed to be her navel, and my soul shuddering at the thought of her loss, I fell asleep just to wake up to the sunshine peeping through her cloudy chest.
She was always a little too much. And the morning she made me coffee, I remember how it was too Much sugar. But I had instilled the fact that she would always be too much. Unlike the world which always had hardly a polyp to give away, she'd have an entire coral reef. Too much happiness. Gloom. Shivers. Magic.
Always too much to break my reveire , too spacious to be my home, and exactly enough to be mine.

Not a poem.

Before I start my poem, tell me a few things.
About when did you mould your clay into an altogether different pot that doesn't feel like you.
When did you become this person who's a walking dictionary of all that is flawed?
Look at you, what happened to you?
When did you start to add meanings to words all on your own?
Meanings that are meaningless to their root?
Tell me when did the word gay mean homosexual to you when all it ever meant was happy.
And tell me since when did your brow start to raise in a questioning manner each time you saw someone who looked a little different from what you assume to be 'decent'
And tell me since when did decency start to house itself in those legs without hair or those clothes that cover you Full?
Since when did your body host all religious beliefs and when exactly did you start to defend all that doesn't even exist?
I want to write a poem and believe me I'll start with it soon, but first tell me.
Tell me honey that since when did amber only mean to you the shade of lords and not of all the brilliant short dresses that you threw out of the window last night because they sinned your wardrobe.
And tell me why does love mean lie?
Or why does heart mean black?
Why is the sea all about ashes and why does the word man mean nothing but anger.
Why does female mean silence and why on earth would you tell me that LGBT is just another word for sinners.
I intended to write a poem, honey.
I guess I wrote an eulogy instead.

Things to know before you make an attempt at me.

I had known falling in love is one thing that doesn't come easy. And honestly, 'honesty' is all I had to give away.
Last summer, while I was at Nana's I made a list of things I'd tell the man who I happen to fall for. Last summer, I made a list of things I'd tell you.

One.
I had a troubled childhood and I happen to go back to the seven year old me and whine about not wanting to go to school afraid I'd have to come back to a house without mommy.

Two.
My brother has hit me enough times for me to have nightmares about the same and tremble under the perfectly knit designer sheets that only cover me half. If only there were a Richter scale to measure the tremble inside of my bones would you ever know what I'm talking about.

Three.
The first time I ever dated a guy, he was seven years elder to me. And I'd be lying if I said I only have a bleak memory of him since I was just 12, because it still haunts me each time. The bed. The screams. The blackouts. The fucks. The pain. By the time I was 13, I had already seen two men ruin my entire goddamed existence and that's where I framed my opinion about men.
One from the man who was supposed to be my epitome of love. Other from the man I almost thought I was in love with.
And yes, that's exactly where all my sexist comments come from.

Four.
I have a number of cuts on my skin. And a lot more under it, somewhere still etching themselves on all those nerve cells that were left that time.
And there's too much shivering from the winter inside of my frozen blood.
So each time you ask me why, the cuts or the shiver? I only tell you I just drank too much back then to remember about the cuts , and I dwell myself too much in smoke to recall about why I was shivering the other night.

Five.
Look, I'm used to loneliness. So, there will be a lot of times I'm going to get on one side of the bed and crumble under my blanket pressing my boobear tight against my chest not knowing that you are waiting on the other side.

Six.
I've dawned anxiety since I was in ninth class and it still has it's roots in my brains. So you see ,love. The mood swings are inevitable and you're never going to know when you might be the one to upset me for no reasons at all.
I never really got over this tiny issue of mine and it seems to love me like a mother who loves her child too dear to let her go off her arms.

Seven.
Making me meet your friends or family is a terrible idea , and you can trace the reason in the way I acted around you when I first met you.
I am all awkward around people and I will always be too much for them to take. You see, I say a lot of things I don't mean and a lot things people don't understand. I Live in the constant fear of being judged and I end up being judged for all that I do because I didn't want to be judged in the first place. You see, how I use one word too many times, do you?
And just so you know, worthless is my favorite.

Eight.
I had a drinking and smoking problem back in eighth grade. It lasted quite a while. I even did drugs back then, I'm a completely changed person now, but trust me nobody from high school will tell you the same. It took a lot to get rid of it. But they'll only tell you of the person you'd never want to hear about.
You'd know about the girl who went to clubs and sheesha bars not about the one whose ideal date would be on a couch back home and with cheese burst pizzas and some Elvis Presley on, while splurging on it.

Nine.
You see I saved all the good things for this. This is about you. And me. About the two of us.
You know how nine is my favorite number because 18 is my birth date and it adds up to it?
This one's for all the beauty there is in the freckles on your skin that house constellations in them, orion on the little left of your right cheek being my favorite? This is for the nebulas that float in the skies trapped inside your eyes. This is for the poor kid by the metro station you bought candy for.
This is for how I fell for you. 
This is only about honesty and for the promise of always being honest no matter what.
And this, my love is where I tell you that I didn't tell you all of my life story because I want your sympathy. I just want you to know me inside out before you make an attempt at me any further, and if the person I am in the least scares you, walk away. Right this second. We've not come too far.
This is for us, for what you choose to do of us.

Subjects.

I never knew much astronomy,
But he was always my sun.
And I
Were his moon.
The way his ambers always made my
chest glisten in the dark.

I know no geography
But he was my plains
And I was all the vegetation
That found it's roots in him.

I know no biology
But he was my heart,
soft and pouncing at twice the speed
Each time I felt his skin against mine.
And I was the mitochondria in his cells,
Each of them keeping us alive
Making us indestructible.

I know no politics
But he was the dictator
And I were the the follower
Following his words
Like satin on my burial ground
And sinking inside it

I know no psychology
But it's only him who keeps
Me sane in this insane world
Keeping my bipolarity at bay
And anxiety at my fingernails
Cutting them off every few days.

I know no history
For I trace mine in him
He the emperor of the sultanet
And me the daasi he fell in love with
Ours was a typical love story
Lost in the pages of history books for seventh graders.

I know no chemistry
But he and I were sodium and oxygen
Burning bright in each other's presence.

I know not much literature
But he's my Henry chinaski
And I'm all his women, combined.

I know no love, I swear.
But he is it.