Untamed letters?

I have never been good at writing letters. Perhaps that’s why things have always been abrupt. I would write paragraphs on loss and hate, heartbreak and failures but i don’t remember writing about love. I don’t remember having happy memories. I haven’t written letters when they were actually needed. I remember rusty papers and my dried quill, not the one line i scribbled and slashed through wondering why wouldn’t i write for you. To save you. To protect you. To bring you back. Because i am miserable at calling back the ones i love. The ink is lost on those – scribbled with love on all fours – bled not from any ink, but my heart. And you forget all you had was to turn back once.

I reminded you long ago. I have never written letters. Only emotions spilling onto white with a framework of words often failing to work in times of desperate needs. Literature has never been my fortè.

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to you, my lover 

to you, my lover,

you made me feel so much in such a short span of time, i don’t think i will ever get over your love. you filled those little empty spaces with care and being, and i don’t even know if i will ever be to return anything to you. you gave me everything. and i just let myself be yours, revelling every moment with you. if i could i would relive all these moments with you again, but i can’t. you gave me everything at once and i didn’t know where to store your love, it just hollowed me from within. i don’t think i am capable of being loved ever. because i don’t trust anyone enough to believe they could love me selflessly.  i know, you love me beyond anything words could explain. but i am empty. like a disappearing vessel that has all its love spiralling into a shadow. and i can’t feel. i can’t feel anything now. and it’s not your fault. it’s the monster i am. 

Don’t leave momma;

Don’t leave momma. I beg her again. Over and over in my head. I was two when she set her foot out to work. The nanny would hover over me all day, feeding me, cleaning me, and i would go reach to her and she would turn her face away like i was some work on her to-do list that she cancelled every love i ached for. From my momma, who like always wasn’t there. 

Mom, i silently tear myself from within every day you are not home cooking for me, helping with my homework, or talking to me about the world and the blaring tv that we both could have watched together. I was fourteen momma, and i let out tears again when my best friend fought with me and called me names behind my back. I ranted to you on call, minute by minute the details of it all, and after a minute and a half, all you said was, “sorry, darling. Can you repeat it again? I was arranging the papers.” I smiled through the little fissure in my chest and said i miss you, mom. 

Don’t leave. I kept begging a hundred times. In a hundred different ways. You worked so hard to design a comfortable world for me, but momma i ached to sit beside you munching on popcorns and watching a movie on the home theatre that otherwise sits like a hammer on my head. Mom, on the sports day, all the parents of every child turned up clapping and cheering their children and i, i cowardly sat at the back too afraid to sweep my eyes through the stadium knowing there wouldn’t my name on anyone’s lips. 
Mom, i turn eighteen today. I bet you forgot again. It is my birthday. And i have shut all the windows and locked myself in my room. My boyfriend ditched me yesterday because i was being too much of a nuisance to handle. I cried and cried soaking my pillow, the paper i tried writing on, and a dozen more tissues knowing that my own mother hadn’t had time to sort out my mess. 

Sometimes mother, i blame you for flunking in my class tests.

I blame you for not having any friends.

I blame you for being a crying mess.

I blame you for all the people who have left me.

But blaming you is doing me no good.

I am eighteen, mother. And i will be the same when i am twenty.

Or thirty two.

Or fifty five.

I dont think i will ever be able to trust someone else with myself. They would run away from handling me too.

No, i am just a heap of withering petals that have never been a use to anybody. 

Empty 

I was empty from the waist down

I could feel ghostly hands groping me

Eating my soul

Tearing my skin to be served as meat chow 

Scratching my heart with claws

Raking havoc on my body

Impuring my virginity 

Digging their filth in my veins

Stoking the fires that lay in embers

And resulting in a disaster

I never meant to be a part.
I was empty.

Like the southern seas have dried

And the westerly winds no longer swing

Like the chariots with rusty wheels

And mountains without an echo.

I was empty

As their lust filled eyes

Drilled into the dancing visions of my slaughter 

And I could do nothing

But laugh;

Laugh while they continued ripping me apart.

Beautiful lovers

We almost made beautiful lovers.

The shrine of happiness cocooned under the soft quilts as we pretended to make love.

Most of the times, it worked.

People saw us.

People saw us as two people madly in love.

But as usual they have clouded visions.

When the filth from our relationship couldn’t be covered up by simple I love you’s, we knew we were done.

We almost made beautiful lovers though.

In the mornings, you would still kiss me on the cheek to caress that bruise or to remind me (which one I would never know) that your drunken self would give me on some nights.

I would lovingly call you ‘honey’ and bring you dark coffee, lighter than your soul.

It was a show we knew, a performance that we enacted brilliantly. 

But our daughter never would.

Neither would the world, I assure you.

I am good at hiding behind a closed door.

And you are good at marking me yours.

It was golden for a while.

Your touch and your pretty little claws.

Until they started digging into my skin breaking it open with blood.

Until they feeded on my flesh with a hungry lint charring my essence to ashes.

Until money bought your pack of cigarettes and the death trap whiskey.

Until I started showing scars.

Until the rope that connected us moulded to steel splattering our blood on the floor

tip-top, tip-top.

The rain stunk that day witnessing the massacre of a love we once shared.

tip-top

the blood continues to drip

and we continue to pretend.

But I must say,

We almost made beautiful lovers

With the moon witnessing the blankets slowly and steadily staining with clumps of wet mud from our painting on each others’ bodies.

Without complications 

​I wish we had a moment to sit back and think – about us. It happened so fast, the joining of strings, and snapping of emotions in no time. I wish I had a moment to admire you, the whole of you, and not just the way you wanted me to feel. It was terrifying – seeing someone cry out their love for you, and sitting back absorbing the guilt and emptiness at how nothing – absolutely nothing I felt. I saw you munch your lower lip the day you told me how you felt, it scared me out of my wits. All I wanted to do was run away, run and hide in anonymity instead of facing you. It felt depressing seeing your face crumble when I didn’t say the words back. Believe me, I never wanted to hurt you. But it hurt anyway I know. It broke me, not too much to leave my work, and swim in a puddle of tears, but enough to make me hollow and sound empty each time I laughed. Oh probably, karma gets back. For all I know. I wish we had a moment to be just friends – without complications.
“Where are you?” I scream.

“Not where you can find me anymore,” came your quiet reply.
No, love was not my forte.
Friendship probably was. 

I fear love

​I would say I have loved enough. Enough to not be poisoned by its fancy blades again. But like all dreamers and dancers, I lose my way around this  reality. I forget that I was never meant to be loved. I forget that I was not supposed to love. I look at the bitter things too often. It ends, one day, the feeling, the wanting, the tingling, the hastening heartbeat. It seeps into an empty hole, of darkness and glass shards. The love, it just ends. I have never seen the last page of a book, his eyelashes seem pretty to me for awhile, only enough to carve a poetry out of it. His black eyes help me paint a world, where miseries no longer exist, till I hate the colour black and nights become my captors. I am a prisoner to love, hating every syllable of it and yet falling in love where I bleed my knees till a scar shows. The dead greet their graves with a wreath of temporary flowers. That is what I hate, that how we decorate the gone, the ache like a prized possession. Love is everything I would ache to feel, to breathe, but it is a funeral where we bury happiness into emptiness. It doesn’t make sense, to give my pieces for slaughter to so many. He stays, long enough to make me hate and love him till I will see the last light of my life. And when someone wants to be there for me, I never give him the chance to prove. The same rose with its beautiful fragrance has thorns to hurt if given the chance. That’s the reason, it’s so difficult to love petals and knives with the same ferocity. 

Falling in a chasm

​You ache over someone who isn’t in love with you, the whole of you. It’s suffocating to watch everyday how that bubble of rejection swims in the air, the heartbreak personified. You know how your every attempt at being with him fails. It irks to see someone being so callous, like you are nothing, only a faded presence meant to be ignored. You hate him, you love him, the confusion, and the turbulence, the madness is terrifying, detrimental, like it feeds a part of who you are. You want it to over. That nagging feeling. That urge to cry with him, and for him. And you can’t walk away because of that one tiny shred of hope that he might someday fall in love with you. You wait for your day, you wait and wait, for the night to dissolve, for him to see how much you would do for him. But really, the one you want as your prince in a jeweled crown, is actually just a human not in love with you.