The Haunting

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you make me ache
there's a feeling in my chest of
how many girls left a mark on you?
i want to be sick
but i can't get her face out of my mind's eye
would she mind i sleep where
she's slept
like i mind
she's kissed your lips
cause right now I'm at the lowest of my high
there are shadows from someone else's dreams chasing me
and i ache for my own missed memories
how many people
have left a mark on me
who are they out haunting
i can't listen to his song
without thinking about the last one i loved
and if he's loving someone now
we are just a chink in the chain of this never-ending
story of heartbreaks
and moving on

Metamorphosis

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Lover, I'm sorry
but I am not always flesh blood and bone
I'm not talking of reincarnation
I don't know about metamorphosis
but sometimes
after days
I lose myself.

They say we are made up of
millions of pieces of stars
that my right hand
is made up of the dust
of a once-sun
but somedays I just feel like dust.
It feels lonely to be made up
of something
that died so long ago,
whose home is in the sky
and would blow away
given a moments notice
to get back there.
I don't want to be lost in the wind
if you are here.

Once, I crawled through the soft
sleepy sheets of your bed, to tell you
that today I was made of shells
every time I moved my fractured body
I could hear pieces of me grinding
against one another
pieces that did not fit perfectly
but left pockets of air throughout me
when i reached out to touch you
a gaping hole appeared
in my chest
you could see right through me
I do not want to be made up
of the armour of dead molluscs
no matter how tough they are.

For a time
before I met you
I was a ghost
it started with
my shadow softening
voice dampening
the tips of my fingers fading
one day I looked in the mirror
all I could see left of myself
were the bags beneath my eyes
packed and ready to go
it hurts to look at
when your body is a whisper
of something you said
as a sad child.

Tagore said
he found his lover in each life
I'm not talking of reincarnation
I don't know about metamorphosis
but lover, with you
I am solid
I promise you
my temperamental body
is yours
in all its forms.

6 things I should tell you but haven't

1. You are giving me growing pains. I have stretch marks showing up, on my hips, lips, thighs. I never knew I could be this much.

2. I'm sorry for all my past and future mistakes. I am still getting the hang of this. I want to be better.

3. Sometimes my stomach hurts when you kiss me. Being with you scares me. You are miles away from my comfort zone.

4. Last night you told me you loved me for the first time, during a drunken fight. You're an idiot. I love you. I've loved you for weeks. I can't remember what it's like not to love you.

5. I write and rewrite texts to you. It has been months and I still can't control myself. I will not stop trying for you.

6. You still leave me speechless. I can't remember how to string words together because all I can think of is your lips. I have tried writing two dozen poems about you. None did you justice.

bird

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lightly feathered, you lie
sprawled.
desperately clutching and releasing
a thousand tender
capsules of air
inside your tiny lungs

Mother

I have never been good at returning gifts.
In year five, mother, you gave me a pink, plastic iron,
for my dolls clothes, you said.
I didn't have the heart to tell you
that my doll had been lying in the shadows of my room
for the last year
and that every time I'd held her, it felt empty.
I smiled, I thanked you.
My doll didn't leave my arms for weeks,
so you would think I had meant it.
Then there were the watches,
you've given me three.
I wore each for years.
Until they inevitably paused, shuddered and died.
There was the too-bright beach towel.
There were the winter pyjamas and the bookmarks.

And to your credit,
you always offer to swap or return or resize
yet every time, I shake my head and swear I adore it
all pearly whites and whiter lies.
I have never wanted to disappoint you.
Mother, you raised a polite daughter, but not a truthful one.

So when you asked,
so tenderly,
if I had ever wanted to hurt myself.
I should have told you.
No, I have never wanted to hurt myself,
but when I was twelve I sat in the car on a lonely day and
sliced my hand with your pocket knife
while i waited for you to come out of the furniture shop.
I should have said,
no, I have never wanted to hurt
but sometimes I think there is a vampire living inside my head and he's eternally thirsty.
I should have said to you,
no, I have never wanted to
but sometimes i imagine stabbing myself in the throat with a carving knife
and it calms me down.
I should have said no,
I have never wanted to hurt myself because that would hurt you
but sometimes it feels like I'm craving something
there isn't a fix for.

I never wanted to kill myself
more than a drowning cat would want to be shot.
It was an option.
It was plan B.
It was meant to be release.

But mother, I could not tell you that,
anymore than I could tell you that I didn't like the first watch you gave me.

Because I don't know about God or religion,
but I know that you gave me my perfect arms,
and throat and beating heart.
And I could not bear to say: yes, Mother, I want return the first gift you gave me.

I know you did not want this for me.

early days

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into

smitten

infatuated

obsessed

a crush 

adore

taken by

keen on

besotted

charmed

hooked

fond of

dazzled

intoxicated

wild about

enamoured

sweet on

mesmerised

but not

in love 

with

I may be kidding myself

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“I began to realize how important it was to be an enthusiast in life. He taught me that if you are interested in something, no matter what it is, go at it full speed ahead. Embrace it with both arms, hug it, love it and above all become passionate about it. Lukewarm is no good. Hot is no good either. White hot and passionate is the only thing to be.”

—	Roald Dahl

Confession

Today,
you asked a question
I have not contemplated
for years.

Did I think my depression was glamourous?
Initially? Certainly,
when you don't care if you live or die
and you are at a party
with friends and acquaintances
getting too drunk on cheap vodka from cheap flasks
and smoking spliffs in darkened back-yards
it is easy to romanticise the sadness,
to compare it to your favourite tv character.

But after a few months,
I hated it.
Because most of the time
I wasn't dolled up and misunderstood
most of the time I was pathetic and miserable.

I was trying to understand how and why
I had ever been happy.
I was embarrassed that I felt this way for no good reason.
And I was afraid that I was going to feel this way forever.
I spent two years trying and failing to remember the person I was
and wondering if i would always be this way.
Most of the time,
I was fucking terrified
and hopeless
and exhausted
and anxious
and just very, very sad.

This is my best explanation.

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You are a breath of fresh air.
My lungs have never tasted so sweet.

relax into yourself

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at the end
when it all washes away
all the pretence
and jealousy
and the grains of other people
that grip to your skin like sand
you are left with yourself
find her
remember her
learn to love her