Even after I manage to write something good, you’ll find me frantically going through it in the early mornings, trying to make it look beautiful.
Cross a word there, no it’s synonym looks much prettier. Like how for a funeral, you dress the corpse in the best clothes, put on make up to hide the dried pale skin, wipe the blood and gore.
For me, writing is like making corpses look pretty.
And your teeth marks are traced on my collar bones and I want to trace your lips so badly again but there’s this boy whose eyes talk to me in waves.
I want our tangled bodies back in the ashes but there’s this boy whose laughter sounds like hope.
And my lips quiver for the bottles but there’s this boy who makes me get out of my head.
And I want to destroy myself again so badly but there’s this boy whose touch feels like healing.
And glass shards and knives and thorns stick out of my body but there’s this boy who smells like summer.
And you were my home but there’s this boy who promises road trips and flowers.
You made me yours and of chaos and cold but there’s this boy who would let me run wild.
Although I still struggle to call myself a writer, I have always felt there are two types of them.
One, who can write anything, at anytime.
Who howl at the moon in the hopes it would love them back. Who scream how people change but love them all the same.
Who cry and then claim to be empty.
Who go crazy from time to time.
Those who love the wolves.
Those who call themselves an artist.
Second, whom words choke until they spit them out. Who wander into cold, vacant vintage stores in the noons and make patterns on the dust for hours.
Who have different souls of all ages.
The arsonists who burn everything they touch but the ink on paper and it’s so beautiful ugly beautiful, the world stares at them in awe.
Who have been insane from a long time. Who create chaos out of peace. Who can start fire from water.
Those who save the wolves.
Those who create art.
Some of us love in trial and errors. Drifting between the past lovers and those who haven’t met yet.
Some of us love the wolves of the streets because the angels back at home are too pure and cruel.
Some of us leave dents and smoulders with their touch.
Some of us are tainted. Some of us leave taints. They steal colours and the warmth through kisses and leave you bit faded with the ashes.
Some of us scream warnings they are not worthy of love. Some of us set the examples of the above.
Some of us are detached, primeval.
Some of us cough glass shards.
Some of us are upside down.
1. Ivy begins to fill your veins and ocean drips from your fingers. You reek of ruins. Scattered, ancient, forgotten. Flowers bloom through your eyes, gluing lashes to the lids. Ghosts flashing in them like the ambulance sirens.
2. You never got love and hate served separately on the plates. And now you can’t complain because you can only see the relationships given to you through the kaleidoscope.
3.But now it’s lying shattered on your bathroom floor, pieces of the glass piercing through your eyes and neck and hands and the stars under your feet, crushed. The craving of neutral makes you sick with insanity.
4. Still. You are so still. You never were so still. The wild has descended into your eyes.
5. You stuff all the bottles and pills and substances under the floor board and run on soberity. To find sanity. To find grey.
6. The red chipped nails give you a panic attack, you can’t tell red from blood. Red blood. Blood red.
7. You expertise in looking normal. You got lost on way back to your own universe and now you float in void.
Caging the wild inside your mind.
//to the wild ones who have gone silent//
I could do nothing but stare. Drained, paralysed. It was always there, the void. The empty space in my chest. And it was getting bigger and bigger.
This hole in my chest was swallowing everything I once had.
I was a universe, on the verge of collapse.
I felt like a stranger in my own skin.
Like my soul belonged to the cosmos, all the chaos, but this skin,
oh this skin, has soberity forced all over it.
Like my soul was as real as the throbbing of blood under the veins, but this skin,
oh this skin, was powdered with fake over and over.
Like my soul was free and of different layers of blue under another like the ocean, but this skin,
oh this skin, was forced to act white again and again.
Like this skin was and will be a trophy to many
But this soul,
oh this soul, would keep deluding their win.