They write their depths.
I write my shallows.
Wolf
I was a wolf howling at the moon,
Trying to pass it as poetry.
When I say I don’t believe in love
When I say I don’t believe in love, I mean I have performed violence on the stage and most of my best acts started with I love yous and ended with sorrys.
When I say I don’t believe in love, I mean I can’t hear your existence over the war raging in my bones that is usually passed from to father to son. I mean I don’t have the tenderness it takes.
When I say I don’t believe in love, I mean I would rather cut my own toungue with my own teeth and swollow it, skin myself before belonging to someone.
When I say I don’t believe in love, I mean I am not spineless as those who do but never admit.
A suffering in lesson.
Some sufferings have no lessons. You come out of them a little dead.
A suffering in lesson.
On death.
I want to write about them but what kind of girl writes about dead? What kind of girl mourns for the people she never met for years? What kind of girl discredits the living, the beauty of nature and glorifies the decaying skin? What kind of girl questions god the holy god your god and believe in death? What kind of girl declares death as her god?
Diagonised
They will rob you of your reality and then diagonise you with schizophrenia.
Violence
The worst kind of violence is that done by one to its own body.
Artist of embalming
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.
There’s this boy
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.
Writers
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.
Chetna Sharma 