“What do you know about me?” She asked me, waiting to unravel the secrets of her world. But little did she know that she was poetry I had been memorising for weeks. She was a new song while I was the radio, overplaying my number one. She was cast in indelible ink and I was nothing but a soft breeze in her world of hurricanes and tornados.
My mind yearns to decipher. It aches to know. To uproot veins and ripples at the sound of our beating entanglement. I think our love is geometric and will remain as such. You and I are parallel; no matter how close we get we’ll never intersect. And as you took another drag, and breathed out rhythms like the smoke, I felt my heart turning as black as your lungs. Continue reading
“What do you want to be when you grow up, R?”
For the first time in those three hours, he put down his pen, shut his notebook and looked at me. This was the first time in three months that he really listened.
I’m the blue of the midnight when the moon isn’t out.
I’m built of stories and scars you cannot fathom.
I’m the flower in your lung, picking at the thorns in your veins.
I’m the melody that ran dry,
And the tear that didn’t.
I’m the broken ballad you’d play again, and the memory that never was erased.
I’m the adventure of the midnight you carry in your pockets.
I’m the fallacy you learned to enjoy,
Your nightmare in flesh and bone.
I’m the one you’ll wish you had never met,
I’m the last word you’ll bleed before you stop writing anymore.
I’m anything but a tragic heroine.
Disclaimer : This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person is purely coincidental.
She had a man-melting saunter that turned heads. Her eyes were a sapphire blue that effortlessly mesmerised, with long skinny lashes in the colour midnight that she flicked almost constantly. Her skin was lighter than ivory with a metallic rose tint to her cheeks. Her faultless champagne blonde hair fell over her shoulders in skinny, slack curls. Her lips were like a frozen rose – beautiful, but deadly.
I want to see her face, look into her eyes and touch her, caressing her pretty pink lips with my fingers. I want to kiss her softly, gingerly feeling the warmth of her mouth, stealing her breath away, stirring the butterflies deep inside her.
If a June night could talk, it would probably boast it invented romance.
She usually went to the beach to find sea shells. Little did she know that that day would bring a new dawn. A new hope. New love, maybe.
Dear People who pretend to notice me (but don’t),
This is from a girl who looked on from the sidelines. A girl who waited. Who watched as her body was shamed. So were her thoughts. All because she dared to look at the world from a different perspective? Continue reading
Life is a battle fought upon battlefields scattered with shorn hearts, broken promises, abandoned hands. Hearts with more casualties that stitches can sew. Hearts torn apart by the endless rage of battle. Continue reading