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.