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.

Scared.

Funny how men are afraid
Of the Dark skin
Of and near the pubes.
But not of the dark
Insides of a woman.

Of red spots on white pants
but not of the same
on white sheets.

Of naked souls
But not of naked bodies.

Of stretch marks and hair
near the belly button
But not of all the scars
Beneath the skin.

Of honest cries
But not of
Fake smiles.

Funny how men are afraid
Of all the wrong things.

Greys.

I was never too fond of colours. My world was all black and white. I didn't dare deviate from these two shades and was skeptical that I even could.
And then you came in. Like some Disney prince walking down the carpet straight into my heart and colouring it all shades of grey.
In my black and white, you brought in all possible greys and trust me each of your grey emotions appealed a lot more to me than your blacks and whites.
With those ever so gorgeous eyes which one would wish to drown in, and that half smirk which would kill all these goddamed women you said, 'listen. I know all your lovers before have swore on your beauty and have promised you the short lived forevers, but I won't do that. I won't promise you a forever or eternity, I would promise you each of my cells, and organs. All my blood and skin and hair. Right now. Till I'm here. Till we can feel each other's skin. Till your hair wavers into my eyes. And till your fingers can still grasp mine.'
While everyone before was trying to fix all of my pieces together telling me that I needed healing, he told me that I was a mosaic. And that none of my parts needed to be fixed and that I looked dazzling just like that and to try mend me would be destruction of a being that God had created with such craftsmanship.
He made me believe in things like unicorns and rainbows. The smoke from my cigarette would often curl itself around his head, and he- he'd become, my guardian angel with that halo over his head adding to the beauty of it all. We would see fucking sunrises together and talk of how there was indescribable charm in it. How it hurt me a little more each night when the moon died one death after another to let sun come to life. Of how this was true love which couldn't ever be realised by reality.
My heart was all those fireflies caught inside that Mason jar whose lid he opened and threw away. He believed that beauty trapped isn't beauty at all.
It was after him that I understood what it was like to be caged yet be free. With his arms around me in a warm embrace, did I ever find the meaning of liberation.
It was metanoia, wherein I- a being became I- a living Being. Not living in the sense that I was respiring every other moment taking in a gasp of air and throwing another out. Everyone does that. But living. In the sense that I could see how the stars moved across the sky and danced for their lovers inside the clouds who had waited for them to come back to life in the dark alley of the sky which runs down into the abyss of love.
Love. A four letter word which has infinite definitions yet that one night I couldn't explain it using any of them.
Love. Which was perhaps what I felt but couldn't put it on paper.
Love. Which made me believe in unicorns and I saw one coming right through the door-Him.
Love. Which made the bed smell no more or tainted sorrow but of fresh come.
Love. Which is something that everyone feels at one point of time when the violins start playing in the big black sky and the saints sing of loss.
Love. And loss. Have that same address. They fuck each night and their mourns sing of longing of all those lovers that they had put apart.
But still, they go together, wherever they go. As in unaffected by the melancholia and grief.
And I lost you. To love.

Making Love.

You made love to me in ways the world hadn't yet known.
You'd drug my cup of coffee with an extra shot of espresso each time I'd miss those extra hours of sleep for completing a deadline and wake me up to kisses on my lips still drowning in futility of the past few weeks and still smelling of last night's rum. You'd kiss me deep as if wanting to feed my cells with enigma.
And when I'd be half awake, you'd gently slide your fingers down my shirt and I'd feel your skin rub against my nipples. Ah, your face looking like that of a child who gets that extra piece of cake on a family dinner.
And your fingertips would circle around my  navel while your tongue would vigorously move in and out of my mouth at the speed of thunder ,lighting each of my organs with passion.
You'd gradually cuff my hands with one of yours and move your fingers around the sides of my belly. Each of them shunning all the battles inside of me and calming all my demons.
That's how you'd wake me up on mornings that followed stressful mundanes.
You'd get our Morning coffees and place it on the table by the front porch right beside the family tree which reminds me only of you. And then, you'd patiently wait for me to slip into nothing but your shirt and make my way to the chair placed alongside yours.
Sitting there, we'd talk of all the beauty there is in the world -and in you- and me- and us. Discussions on world politics and all those celebrity gossips. Of what made it to the times magazine cover, and what hit the front-page for Vogue and Bazaar. You'd steal quick glances at me as if to tell me 'You're wonderful.'
And then we'd head straight to the bathroom and you'd wash off all my worries while I'd shampoo your miseries away.
We'd dress each other for the day which had in store for us all it's tasks and chaos. And when I'd come home to you, and you'd come home to me ,you'd give me a twenty minute long hug smoothly caressing my hair that would be a mess by then.
Post dinner you'd clear the table as I'd do the dishes.
And in the bedroom babe, there would be romance flickering through the candle light and fragrance flowing from the scented incense sticks. You'd cover my body with your skin and let me rejoice each single moment, each night.
You'd get inside of me with all possible perfection from the mountains to the rugged terrains conglomerated in one. All of those eight thousand nerve endings at my clit rushing with all the god for saken hormones in my body.
And then, as you'd come out, you'd look like an infant coming out of his mother's womb. Leaving a place which was much more like home to come into just another world that he would willingly never come to.
This routine had instilled itself in us and yet, it didn't feel like it in the least.
You my darling, made love to my soul each dawn and to my swollen clitoris each night.

And I'm lost.

As a kid, I had always romanticised pain and sadness. I had the thought that scars are the most beautiful thing, that darkness is home and that hurt is bliss. It took me 19 years until I found you. 19 years before I realized there was no beauty in scars, no joy in loss, and nothing wonderful about ignorance.
Sweetheart, you broke my bones and rugged my skin shed. I still look for beauty in all of the million tattered pieces left of me post the heart wrenching sessions of ignorance and agony. I still wonder how did it end up so fast, so miserable. You barbaric human being, never saw what ruins you were walking over, the roots you were ripping apart as you flawlessly stepped on each of my twigs and branches leaving me half dead. Half alive.
It was then, that I understood that scars bleed. And that pain savagely tears through your chest. There's nothing romantic about pain. Nothing in the least. Tears aren't fancy.
When you reach out for a hand and there's none in the eternal dark, you don't feel great. Hurt consumes you. And your bone marrow turns to dust that you wish to wash off. Your heart seems like an organ which floats too heavy inside the endless depths of your soul which has a million voids from the night you told me it was a joke. A goddam joke.
All those shows that one of those channels played each Saturday morning where this bad guy would put his charms around a woman and leave her in the middle of nowhere to die. My life resembles those shows so much with the exception of a good guy saving me in the end. You were my moon each night when the terrace seemed too far, my light when I couldn't switch on the tube lights. I saw beauty in your wounds and assumed you bled from mine. You told me of trust and vows. Of heavens and orchids. But all those orchids seem to rot in the backyard alongside all your promises.
All my life I craved hurt. I wanted to be left so broken that it would require some super powers to get back up and even walk. I wanted to breathe pain and live my life so forlorn that even my own soul would tremble to hold me back, let aside your hand.
But now that it has all turned to reality I see no charm in the heart trying to pump away all the aching emotions that you promised to house in you. You promised me a home and left me homeless. Now there's going to be winter forever while none of my parts are going to be covered by the blanket of hope. There will be no warmth of your skin rubbing against mine. None of my ideas of how pain would turn to rubies work out today. None of them seem to stay honest to their creator. I carved my name onto the little piece of me that you took away. Now each time I stand in front of the mirror, it mocks at me. For I have no identity except the one that is lost. The one that once was. I look at it and try to be strong and tell it not break down but it won't listen. I fall apart into a million stars each night in front of this mirror while none of these stars are bright enough to guide me home to you. You're gone. And pain isn't beauty anymore. Hurt isn't romantic. And the scars are not shallow, but skin-deep that cut each of my mortal organs a little more.
But you won't care.

Say yes.

The problem with me is that I feel things too deeply. If you are upset with me I would keep up all night sending you all those messages you won't ever respond to. I'm going to flood my pillow with mascara that would, for some reason flow out through my eyes.
I'm not the kind who would get over you. I would be there for you in the darkest nights when even your soul trembles holding your hands. I'm going to walk through the shadiest places and you're never going to feel alone with me. I'll know when to get you cookie crumb Ice cream tub and when a cheese burst. I'll know how you can be screaming and I need to hug you real damn tight, just squeeze the shit out of you. I know I fuck it all up quite a few times and that I might be the most unworthy person this world can know. And I would often crawl inside of the closet and stay there till it is too wet to be seated there. But know that it has nothing to do with you. It's about me. I'll sink in my gloom too often to be helped.
You'll see crimson soaked pillow cases and tee-shirts post nights of sorrow. My fear of loss would be the most hard to bear with.
There'll be emptiness that words cannot explain, hollow spaces inside of these bones, fury flowing through the veins. My demons are always hyperactive and they're going to fuck with the halo on my head leaving me with nothing at all.    I'll keep your love alive each single second of my life, I'm going to carry your light and spread it to kill darkness in the loneliest of places. But know that you keep these demons at bay. So just keep in mind each time I cripple between the blankets, no I'm not too far, I'm right there and you need to only come and drag me out of the pitch black into broad daylight.
There will always be a little misery you'll have to adjust with, but know that my nights aren't eternal. They'll give up to the sunshine of your soul soon. But till then, can you hold me and walk past the moonlit emptiness that covers my world? Can you grab my palm and tell me that you're never going to be afar and that there's always going to be a better tomorrow? Can you know that the twinkling stars inside of you will always guide us out of here? Can you bear with all my gorgeous mess? Can you find music in the pain I carry with me? Can you see how I stargaze into the infinite galaxies in your chest?
Tell me you can. Say yes.

Reasons you shouldn't date me.

One.    
I'm never going to be able to love you enough. And I'll always know you deserve better. And no matter what. I will always belong more to myself than to anyone else.
Two.        
I'm not even going to make you feel like I'm falling and it's beautiful. How can falling even be? It's called falling afterall. For a reason ,yea?      
Three.   
I'm going to take my time off you, more often than not. I'm going to crawl back into my shell and live in my vanity for a long time until I'm ready to get back to earth. You're going to be with me, and you're going to be lonely.    
Four.        
There's nothing you could do to sweep me off my feet. You'll never feel like a strong man who has the control over his woman's emotions when that woman is me.     
  Five.         
You'll never be happy with me. Look, I have hard times. A lot of them. Every now and then. And I can be mad at you for nothing at all and blame on you all my sorrow. I'm going to crib over my past, my present, my exs , everything. I'm going to sob and you'll have no idea how to calm me the fuck down. Because honey, I never gave anyone but myself the authority to.
Six.   
I'm never going to surprise you. I'm going to treat my own self instead.    
Seven.      
I'm quick to fall in love. And when I am whipped, you won't even know. Nothing- my actions or words- would Ever show how there's a water tank inside of me and how each droplet sings of you. I'll write to you a million love letters describing how perfect your smirks are, and how it literally had my heart when you knelt down, how it's amazing how you dress up each time we meet even though you know I would never dress up for anyone. Then I'll stack them up the cupboard and never open it again.
Eight.  
I won't dress up. Not for you. Or for anyone else. You'd see me hanging in around you in my pyjamas and loose ice cream stained tee-shirts.     
Nine.     
I would steal your pens, your handkerchiefs and your tee shirts , at times.  And mostly, I'd puff all your cigarettes and most nights you'd be out of them. And because I know you love your cigarettes a lot.
Ten.         
And then, one fine day. You'd be up in my face screaming, 'Do you even love me?' And I'd pass on that little grin at you and you'd walk out of the room. Floor. House. Street.  And then, you'll be gone. Leaving me with yet another piece of my heart broken by some perfection who deserved every bit of it.      
Eleven.       
Because then I'd be left with ache in the slight left of my chest and with those droplets from inside that tank in my heart coming straight through my eyes ruining my mascara and leaving me with more pain than cigarettes could heal.     
And so, it's best to drop even the idea of dating me, dear. Let's just hangout.

Whore.

I feel like a whore. Wishing to swim deeper inside of you. Explore your depths.
There are times I don't wish to make love to you ,baby. I want to fuck you. Hear your mourns as your insides flutter with hormones that give you the best orgasm of your goddamed life.
I wish to touch you along your spine, kiss it, feel each inch of you. I want to jumble my legs with yours and entwine my fingers with yours while you are all over me like the blanket I wear each night to escape this city. Country. World. Galaxy. Universe.
I wear you like the forgotten alibi from the last sin I ever committed.
Like the blood stained napkins from the night I murdered my own self to give birth to the woman this world would accept.
But right now. When you're inside of me, I want to go back to the woman I was.
Before the world made amends and I died.
Tonight. I want to feel your liquids rushing against mine. I want to feel your skin caress mine, your hands cuff mine while you get inside of me- Deeper. A little more.
I want be the same woman who wasn't the broken scars and pretty dolls. I want to be the crazy hippie with her legs as open as her mind, breathlessly wandering in space wanting to live her life on her terms.
Tonight. I am the woman that was. Savage.
Tonight. A woman is dead. Another reincarnated.

Stars.

3
I still call you at 3 A.M while I lay under the blanket of stars. I call you, over and over again. I want you to see how beautiful the moon looks tonight.
The bell rings. Once. Twice. Thrice. No answers.
I hope you got an alibi for this by morning.

4
I'm slowly running out of whiskey to keep me going. The pack of cigarettes too is empty now. I wonder why the pack says *smokingKills* while I'm still alive after a million cigarettes already inside of me. I remember when I started smoking, hoping it would eventually kill me. Such a fool I've been. It did nothing. You killed me. You still kill me each day. And night.

4'15
I can't get over the fact that you're gone. I trusted you with my life and you just went away. Leaving me here with a hundred dead promises to haunt me each dawn. The blues are stuck in my heart and my chest looks like the sky where there's no moon just a dark cloth with pain gracefully sequined on the corners.

4'30
My terrace smells of broken whiskey bottles and heart of all the unkept words. Words which never became reality. Words that lost their meaning to time.

5
My heart feels too heavy to be held inside of me now. The chest is just too big a sky for me to keep inside of me. I need to let this out. I wish I could rip it out and show that how it bleeds black each night when I look at the stars.

5'30
I'll tell you a story. That star on far right there, see that? I named him after you. I remember you told me find me in the stars if I'm too far.
Why are you so far? My dilemma stands before me and asks me if you went or if someone took you away? I have still not found answers to it.
I talk to the star. Tonight. Like I have been talking to it since the day you went.
I'm facing a crisis now. Your commitments were all lies. And you've left my life crumbled like the first poetry I ever wrote and threw it away. You went.

5'45
I ask him over and over again.
Why did you leave me in this turmoil?
Why did you have to go without completing our forever?
Did you not miss me enough to come back?
Did you not love me enough to stay?
Are the gods so unfair?
Is that how life goes?
And I'm left with no whisky. None.
The bottle is empty. Like my bones. My organs. My insides. My heart. Hollow spaces that exist inside of me and swallow me each night. They never kill me. I wonder why?
That star doesn't answer. I don't get my answers. I throw the bottle at it. Frustrated with these silences between us. When did you get that far? Why did you get that far?
See you left me far far behind. Come back, please.
It's killing me.
It's ki................................. 



9.
I wake up to your voice note from December 25th when you told me our forever was real. That we'd fight against it all. And I weep.
I check my phone to find out how I've been calling you all night. I wonder why it's so hard to understand that the skies have you now. That you're there next to the moon watching me from afar. Tell me you're ashamed of what I've become. Tell me you don't like the human being I'm becoming. Tell me it's not right-what I do. Scold me. You won't right? I know. You can't. You're gone. You chose the easy way out and left for your heaven for the heaven here wasn't beauty enough for you.
I look for you in the pieces of poetry. I keep you breathing through these words. These words.
We still are forever, aren't we?

Bygones.

One.
I was the person who loved silences. Words ruined things for me.
Just staring at each other and let the breeze play her beautiful song. 
Losing ourselves to the melody of that waterfall by tree hill. Gazing at your perfection without blinking for once. 
Making love to you and hear the sounds of the liquids strike some different chords in both of us. Sitting in the coffee shop and sipping our cappuccinos without sharing words. 
Silences. They made me feel at ease.

Two.
But you weren't the silent types. You needed words.
To tell you how utterly beautiful your face looked when the sunlight fell on it. How the daisies must be jealous of you. You needed to be told your worth through syllables- not glances.
You needed sounds- the wild ones while making love. While I preferred silence.

Three.
Somewhere between the gaps between your fingers my silence must still be there. Lingering at the tips with a hundred graveyards of unspoken words. 
With a hundred failed attempts at letting them words flow from the mouth. 
But perhaps you just can't see it. See how my silence often said the most beautiful things one could've said.

Four.
I lay here and breathe. Just breathe. Gazing at the sky in amazement as if it were my mate who'd understand each of my silences like you never did. 
Sometimes I sit by the waterfall and talk to it like I would to you. Through silences. And it gets them all. I wonder why you never did. 
Why you never enjoyed the joy of unspoken words. The pleasure that there was in absolutely nothing.
But you materialised it. All of it. Us. You. Me.

Five.
So I know when you left me I wanted to weep and cry and scream.
I know you thought I didn't feel an inch of your words, but they ripped each of my cells. Every. Single. One.
But like a fool, I chose silence over words. Again. Over again. 
Thinking at the back of my head that just this time around, you'd understand my silences. That the sorrow dripping from my eyes would catch your sight and my you'll feel how my voids were swallowing me- bit by bit.

Six.
Without noticing the voids, the tears, the tearing sound of my skin shed, the melancholies of my soul, you left.

Six. 
I died a little inside. Still not uttering a word. Still wanting my silences to talk.

Six. 
Two years since I sit here with my tub of cookie crumb Ice cream. Eating. Weeping. Silently.

Six.
I know I was a fool. Should've said it. Shouldn't have let you go. Should've destroyed the beauty of my silences. Just for you.

Six.
I'm lost.

Lies.

Lies. That smell of bitter honesty. The ones I bleed when my heart aches. The ones stacked in one corner of the book shelf in 21-32 park Street, the apartment that still smells of you. Lies.
When I told you of the man I had given off my all to.
When I told you how my heart felt like this immortal piece of a broken star when he saw me, when I told you about the nerve endings doing their wacking and sending out a million impulses in that one moment when he leaned his chest against mine and planted that kiss on my lips.
How I told you he's a charmer. Perfection wrapped in my arms. How I told you about how that man feels like my definition of perfection, about how I had never known what love could've been, until I met him. Lies.
Truth, though. That I fell for you while I was seeing another man. The man I talked of all this while, wasn't him, it was you. That all my life I've been lying, to myself. To the world. To him. To you. To my life. To everyone I meet. All I tell them are. Lies.
That I want to run away from this world. There are too many rules to follow. That this version of reality sucks and I'd much rather spend my life building lego houses and seeing hermits build their houses.
That I'd love to be lost in the freckles of your skin, explore The map that your curves make. That I wish to forget myself and be all in you, lost somewhere between the gap of your fingers.
Truth. No more. Lies.
But I know my castle would fucking fall and reality would smash me in the face and tell me that hey! This man isn't yours. Go back. That man you promised a lifetime once is still waiting. And I'll have to go back to him, every now and then after heart wrenching sessions of heated up arguments about how I'm not the same woman he fell in love with.
Countless fights. Infinite patch ups. All lies. That I wish to fathom into the depths of your curves and caress every inch of your skin with my lips so that I'm eternal. Truth.
And I know this truth won't exist, can't exist. Lies.
Perhaps I'm just too weak to do all that. Perhaps it's true that true love is the one that can't be your reality. Perhaps We'd be together one day when the skies would fall and the stars would all make a passage for our hearts to come and unite.
Ah. Lies.

Her.

Smoked eyes, glossed lips, mascara on point.
Two bottles of whiskey down my empty stomach, that showed a little through that dress.
So short those clothes they had to see, and come make a lucid comment,
of course you were wrong going out at that hour, dimwit.
Their hands explore your spine, then grab you by your neck,
Rejoice lady as they go, for you called for it instead.
Don't you stop your car and park it aside. To admire that sun set?
So what's so wrong about them doing the same, just that it's your butt.
Oh sick man, you should be all dressed up. No skin show, just no.
It makes a man fixate his gaze to that little skin you show.
Go cover your legs and back and head. don't step off from that porch.
Don't ask that fat bellied man at the police station, don't beg instead for help,
When you chose it, just get through it don't stop by and sob.
Don't eat. Don't drink. Don't sleep. Don't wake.
Don't walk. OMG. Not that way.
Don't dress like that. Too provocative you'd say.
Don't sip, shit that's erotic.
Don't speak, you're a woman.
And don't blame on men-the abuse, when you didn't cover your skinshed.
So. Stop lady. Don't breathe. That's too much you're asking for,
Die a slow death a hundred times, no other escape from hell.

Saturnine.

Leaning back on that chair by the window tonight,
Sitting hand in hand with misery and fright.
The skies set ablaze with just the thought of you,
The night seems darker than I ever knew.

And there you wave, at me a hey,
While I try to push all the pain away.
That glee on your face, too wide I see,
Dead a bit inside to know the reason's not me.

I bet she's great that girl you found,
Prettier than the prettiest, how foolish I sound.
And she better acknowledge how lucky she is,
To have had the man who's more than a bliss.

He who blushes scarlet, at just the thought of you,
How he says the sweetest things, all staring at his shoe.
And how his hair falls back so fine, not a thing out of place.
And how he mocks at shit, Ah! That face.

And let their be light, I hope she makes you shine.
And oh, don't you bother. I'd soon be fine.

Ethereal.

We met. And the stars aligned themselves to create the most magical night sky. It was the crescent shaped moon that night, adding to the beauty of it all.
The depths of the sky that I could drown into. I would let them engulf me, making me kvell over the magnificent black up above my head.
The heavens sang their song and the stars danced to it.
And then, one moment, when you leaned over, just to let the taste of your lips melt into my mouth, like sugar does in cream, and let your arms cover me in utter perfection, my world stopped. It all stood still.
I swear, that moment I lost the old version to become a new lady. Your last. And how your fingers generated electricity that ran across my body as they tenderly went below the neck, to the cleavage, to the naval. How a million nerve cells of mine rushed and the adrenaline bursted through the glands.
We made love, while the universe sang of our unison.
There was magic in the night, and in you.
It was love. Mad. Deep. Queer. Unexplainable. LOVE.
The kind I lost most parts of me to.
The kind that makes you live again.
The kind gives birth to just another you.
The kind that consumes you of your all.
The kind that demands nothing, yet gives everything.
The kind that doesn't need physical touches. That establishes connections beyond skin.
The kind that creates an endless ripple in your heart.
The kind that stays, forever.