I wanted this to be a poem.

I wanted this to be a poem but it’s really just something I want someone else to hear. Like sometimes I drop off the grid for a month. Let the messages pile up like dirty laundry. I call it self-care. Call it growth. Call it everything but saying I can’t stand anyone else that isn’t you. They’re too boring. Too plain. Too not you.

I wanted this to be a poem but it’s really just something I wanted to tell you. I kissed another boy to our song. His arms were wrapped around my waist but it still felt like I was swaying to the beat alone. I guess that’s what it feels like to dance with a ghost.

I wanted this to be a poem, but it’s really just something I think but don’t say out loud. I always hoped we’d find each other in some drugstore 5 years from now with our lives all figured out and fall in love all over again, and actually, do it all right this time. But to be honest, we both knew blaming timing was never right, it was just easier.

I wanted this to be a poem but it’s really just something I want to forget. You are the first boy I loved. And I wanted you to be the last.

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“How to save a life”

So it’s summer and so it’s sunday and so the boy you love is lying in your arms. I say lying, but I mean dying. See, he isn’t really dying, but it sure does fucking feel like he is. It feels like he’s dying and all you want to do is save him. But you don’t know how to, and even if you did, you don’t know if you could do it. His father is sick and he is, he is more scared than you’ve ever seen him. You want to tell him everything will be okay, but the words don’t make it out of your lips. You promised yourself once that you’d never lie to him, but here he is and you almost want him to smile again more than you want to keep a promise.

He shatters in your arms like a mosaic. And you pretend not to notice when the glass shards pierce your skin, but you do. You notice, but you don’t say anything. Instead, you gather the pieces and try to fix him up again. Make him whole again. The skin under his eyes is some horrible shade of purple, and even though you love anything lilac, you do not love this. You could never.

He reaches his shaky arm out for yours, and for a second he looks like a man drowning in the ocean. He asks for a hand, but you want to give him your whole body. You are sitting on a terrace and you think it’s fitting. He is on the verge and you want to believe you can keep him from falling.

The boy you love is no longer the boy you love. You can tell. The boy you love is not there anymore. You want to look into his eyes and search for him but you’re too afraid of what you might find. You place your head on his chest and pray the weight of your thoughts is enough to keep his paper heart from flying away with the wind.

So it’s summer and so it’s sunday and so the boy you love is dying in your arms. He is sad, and you don’t know what to say or do. And so you kiss him. You kiss him until the last bird goes home. And when he asks you why, you tell him that in fifth grade your science teacher taught you how to perform CPR on a dying man. And back then you believed that if you found someone who’s heart had stopped beating, you place your lips on theirs until they come back to life. Some part of you still wants to believe it.

“December”

It’s just the end of a year but it feels like the end of the world. But it’s cool. It’s cool. It has to be. This month I didn’t cry at all. Who am I kidding? Well, not in public at least. This month I learnt how to be everyone’s dream girl. Who do you want tonight, baby? Do you want bad girl; girl with fire on her tongue and the ashes of her old lovers on her cheeks? Or do you need good girl; girl who tastes like cotton candy and blushes like a rose garden when you whisper god only knows what in her ear. This month I learn how to be okay with being someone else. I slip out of my skin and into someone else’s so easily. This month I learn to be cool, cool, cool.

It’s just the end of a year but it feels like the end of the world. And i’ve got a hell of a seat to watch this grand finale. It feels like I’m running out of time. Or words. Or both. This year’s been so full of loss and chaos. I walked into this year thinking I’d get through it without a scratch, but here I am. Bruised and exhausted. But I’m still dancing to the love songs playing on the radio. Still swinging and twirling. Still alive. and I guess that has to count for something.

It’s just the end of a year but it feels like the end of the world. Or like being chased for miles only to find yourself in a dead end street. But I’m just being dramatic. You say morbid, but I suppose they’re both the same anyway. The sky looks like it’s about to drop down. I wonder if the stars will come down too. I want to kiss them. I want to unravel them and find out what makes them glow. I want to know what the sparks look like. 

It’s just the end of a year but it feels like the end of the world. I mean, this month’s got fangs, you know? And air so cold it’ll make your head spin. Can’t possibly see anything through the fog. I have absolutely no idea what’s coming. But as long as I’ve got the moon with me, I think I’ll be just fine.

It’s just the end of a year but it feels like the end of the world. And I want to call you. But I don’t. I want to call and say, “I deleted all the messages. Each and everyone one of them. The pictures, too. It’s funny because I didn’t feel anything. I don’t know, it’s a strange feeling, I guess. And I’ve stopped writing you love poems. Maybe it’s odd because when we were in love I wrote about the love and flowers blooming and the sun. And when we we fell apart, I wrote about heartbreak and ache. But what now? What can I write when I don’t feel a thing?” 

It’s just the end of a year but it feels like the end of the world. And you know me. And how much I love lists. This month I make too many. One for all the things I can do next year. One for all the things I lost this year. And one for who stays and who goes. You make both.

“November”

‚ÄčNovember in song.

“searching for a heart of gold”

 
i’m trying to relearn how to be tender again. i want to be a petal again. i’ve been the thorn. being the bad one feels good but tastes so fucking horrible. i don’t like the way this poison tastes on my tongue.


“mon amour, sweet child of mine, you’re divine”

baby, i know i ain’t no angel. i know i got flaws. somedays it’s hard to find myself beneath them. learning to love myself is hard, but sometimes i can be a pretend goddess. maybe someday i’ll find a permanent spot in heaven.


“my bad, bad love”

why don’t we talk about the heartbreak? why is love always the starlet? why does she get centerstage? heartbreak must always be the understudy right? i guess what i’m asking is, why is the spotlight on the glamour and not the pain? why do I only write about the sweet words but never the strange aftermath?


“do you say that I’m a sweetheart? do you say that I’m a freak?”

sometimes i like to imagine you sitting in some stupid coffee shop in delhi twenty years from now. when someone asks you about me, you smile and say, “oh, my baby. she’s still driving me insane with that smile.”


“losing my mind losing control”

at night it feels like i’m trying not to remember a thing. the last time i got off a plane, i left my fears on the seat. they’re in the clouds right now. i don’t know if that was a good idea but when i’m cruising down the highway about fifteen kilometres over the speed limit with the wind in my hair, it sure does feel great.


“somebody catch my breath”

what does it say about me, that i still lose my breath when i see you?


“how was I supposed to know anything?”

here’s what I do know. the stars are dying. we don’t know what’s at the bottom of the ocean. anything divided by zero is infinity. i’ve learnt four languages, but i am afraid to tell you i love you in any of them. i don’t know why. a girl can only know so much.


“been waiting on that sunshine”

this winter is harsh on me. on my lips. on my skin. on my heart. these shadows are no good for me. i miss the light.


“talking under pink skies”

i sit on a brick bench across from a girl i used to trust with my life. she is a stranger now. we know nothing about eachother. but we reminisce under the rose coloured sky and look at each other through these rose coloured glasses and every thing feels peachy.

“getting on your goodbye shoes”

the year is almost over and i’m revving my engines. i’m kissing the leaves goodbye. i’m ready to go. time can sweep off my feet and take me to somewhere i’ve never been.

“October”

‚ÄčWanted: October


Last seen
: A year ago. I know it’s gonna be hard to find her again now but I guess I’ve always been a sucker for hope.
Was wearing a coat of orange- No, yellow leaves. No, green. Can’t really decide between the warm or cold colours. Blushes when you say you love her. Has sparks in her eyes. Like fireworks, they say.
Hush now. And you’ll hear her. In the cold wind. My baby, she sings when she’s tired. Quiet now. Hear her sing the song of the lost and the loved. 

Responds to
: Honey. Get it? Thick enough to trap you, but sweet enough to make you forget all about it. 

Additional information
: October doesn’t judge. October doesn’t say a word when you make bad choices. October doesn’t tell you not to get on that boy’s bike. October isn’t the angel on your shoulder. And probably won’t ever be. She just watches the leaves fall down and watches you fall apart. A little manic, a lot dream.
October, a mess of sleepless nights and big eyes and shaking hands. So it’s scary. So it’s jumping off a cliff, but knowing you’ll be okay. So it’s scary, but a sort of safe. 

Please contact me if you meet her.
Tell her I miss her. She won’t come back, too much of a free spirit to do so, but tell her to call once in a while. I keep waiting up all September for her. Want her back. Need her back.

“September”

9 dreams I had in the 9th month about 9 people I don’t talk to anymore. 

  • I am 28 and stuck in an elevator in a wedding dress. My wedding dress. There are 2 children stuck in there with me. They are afraid, but I hold them close and tell them a love story. Our love story. They fall asleep on the peach silk and I stroke their heads and wait to see you on the other side of the metal doors.  
  • In this one, I am cotton candy. You kiss me and say, “sugar, you’re falling apart.” I say, baby, it’s okay. Melting isn’t such a bad way to go when I’m with you. 
  • I open my mouth to fire bullets but out falls syrup. My harsh words drip down my chin like honey. Tell you I hate you, tell you’re toxic, tell you you’re bad like 4-packs-a-day-bad; but all you can hear is drip, drip, drip. Even in my dreams, I can not hurt you. 
  • We’re slow dancing at dawn near a pond to soft music. There are doves all around us and I understand heaven, finally. And then the song becomes heavy and the sky turns dark and the birds transform into bats. But I don’t notice your claws until it’s too late.
  • You said I got you hooked, you said I got you wrapped around my finger, you said you didn’t understand how that could ever be a bad thing. But baby, can’t you see? when I fall down from the clouds, I drag you right down with me. 
  • I dreamt once that the world was covered in crickets and snakes. Your mother and I are the last ones alive. She tells me you really did care. She tells me I really was your best friend. She tells me you’re sorry we aren’t friends anymore. 
  • Drake and I are sitting on the tip of the iceberg that broke the titanic. He asks me if part of me took AP psychology because I’m still trying to figure out ways to help you. I can’t look him the eye.
  • I’m on a spaceship bound for some unknown planet. I laugh. Little tin girl in a little tin vessel bound for a little tin planet. Nobody asks why I signed up for this mission. And I never have to tell them that I’m still trying to put some space between us. 
  • You leave me in the middle of some fancy restaurant and I drop my glass of wine. You leave me on the top of a Ferris wheel and I want to jump off. You leave me at the gates of the Taj Mahal and even a damn tourist asks me if i am lost. You leave me in all my dreams and I wake up screaming. Every goddamn time. 

“August”

august ’15 and august ’16 have a conversation.

15: hello. the poet is so happy. is she still that sunflower of a girl?
16: no. she is tired. she heard that the stars were slowly dying and it hurt her. said that would be painful. said they don’t deserve that. 

15: she talked about change a lot. has she found it?
16: she has, but not in the way she wants. it was too quick and painful. her head is spinning.

15: the leaves are falling. the sky is just brush stroke over brushstroke. this month is all the right colours.
16: the leaves have fallen in July already. the trees are bare. the sky is too. the artist up in heaven must’ve quit.

15: does she still write about him? she promised she wouldn’t.
16: she doesn’t write about him anymore. knows if he asked her to be his again she’d say no. this is progress, yes, but yesterday she almost kissed his best friend in a run down old mall, just to see if she could still hurt him.

15: what about her guinea pigs? are the well-rested?
16: of course they are. their fur is still beautiful and shining. they chirp every time they see her and it warms her. 

15: buried her past and her heart with it. 
16: it’s awful. she remembered her birthday but still couldn’t bring herself to wish her. old wounds still hurt if you press them hard enough. 

15: her mother doesn’t know the things that haunt her. 
16: her mother has seen her hurt. she can’t stop praying for her.

15: she loves her red lipstick. i swear the girl would forget her own name but not that shade of burning bricks.
16: she’s softer now. all pastels. bubblegum pink on her lips all the damn time.

15: everything she feels in her chest, is seen in her eyes. 
16: her eyes don’t glow anymore. and it’s breaking my heart.

[part 8/12 of the 2016 series ]