Mint

If chocolate is the best thing in the world, what’s the opposite of chocolate?

When I was little, I loved too much. I sulked too, all the time, threw the worst tantrums where the only thing I said was BUT WHYYY in this increasingly shrill soprano. I can sing but only when no one’s watching. I hate not being the centre of attention, I think it has something to do with being the middle child though ironically enough, the chicken is always the best part of the sandwitch. Always always. I cry when I’m angry, did you know that? I can stand in front of the mirror for hours, pouting, smiling, talking to my reflection. Sanity has never been my strong point. I need to bleed out my emotions into my writing. I’m a drama queen, always have been. I think I was 5 when I realized that the best way to get the worlds attention was to make people laugh. I run alot. Whether Away from or Into, I’m still not sure. I get distracted easily..all I have to do it breathe and that’s it, my minds already racing through yesterday or tomorrow. I only do things because I want to and even then I have a million questions. I’m very stubborn. Sometimes, I fight for what I don’t want just to prove that I can. I go through phases. I wore black n pink for 3 months when I was 16, don’t ask me why. I go through people phases sometimes too. People bore me easily. Or maybe I’m scared I’ll bore them so I like to think they bore me, and then I run. I’m an escapist. I have an answer for everything I didn’t do. I like to think I’m smart, different, special but if you ask me to prove it, I wouldn’t know how. I talk a lot. I do it to cover up what I’m really feeling, so you don’t see through me, you just look at the façade and laugh and think ‘so cute, she doesn’t make sense’. I don’t blame you. I’m a psycho babbler. But I see more than you think. I have lots of walls, protective shields..they keep me safe. I’m very selective about the people I let in. I’m not saying I hurt easily, I’m just saying I hurt myself. I almost always get way too emotionally involved even though I know I shouldn’t. It’s stupid really. You’d think experience would teach me some better sort of defense mechanism than glass walls. They shatter, you know. I have big feet. People have called me beautiful often enough but I’m still insecure about my appearance. I obsess over a lot of things. I love playing football in the rain. I read alot. It’s my addiction. I love silver hoops, bangles, studs. I used to be comfortably numb but then the world kept interrupting me and it became uncomfortable. My favourite Disney movie is Aladdin, I think it’s because all my friends say I look like Jasmine. Big hands turn me on. Bad grammar and spellings annoy the life out of me. Boys in shirts look sexy. I get stress headaches often where my temples hurt like hell and all I want to do is curl up into a ball and cry. I used to think I didn’t feel., but I do. My pain threshold is practically negative..I don’t know how I’m ever going to have kids. I have scars, lots of them. I care about people, like genuinely. I can’t see anyone hurt or unhappy. Sometimes, I like myself, sometimes I don’t. There are days when I can almost see myself from a distance, doing and saying things I hate and I want to yell at me to shut the fuck up. I have friends, lots of them. Maybe too many. The boys in my class say that I’m the hottest girl in class. I don’t like it. People I know are scarily protective of me, do I look like I need protecting? When I’m hurt, I shut down completely. I would never cry in public. I hate pity. I’m scared of a lot of things—cockroaches, people,the dark, fire, emotion. Someone once told me that I’m like water, I take the shape of the container I’m placed in. But what if there’s no container? Does the water evaporate?
Random, I know. This is..Me. You don’t know Me, not really. I don’t know Me very well either. So we’re sorted. You asked me if I trusted you, the truth is, I don’t trust myself. I twist words and feelings in my head and turn them into something I no longer recognize. It’s a very masochistic tendency. But I don’t want that to happen with you, ever.
This may have totally freaked you out, made you contemplate even liking me, and made you think I’m completely psychotic, but I don’t care, because I wanted you to know. Why? Because I want to share. Because..umm..I like you :)

Heartbreak. The opposite of chocolate is heartbreak.

You read through this? Didn’t think so.

Ambulance Chasing

Your colour has inked itself across my skin, swirling into indifferent intricate tattoos and slashing into painful angry scars.
I try to dab at the colour but the fabric bleeds red and the sting sends shivers of life down my spine.
I’m only human.
You’re bleeding yourself dry and I’m soaking it in until all that is left of you is a shadow.
I’m glowing.
I’m growing,
Guilty.

Do you lie like I lie?

You don’t fit into my frame. Hell! I don’t fucking fit into my frame. It’s too..big, too ornate, heavy, in-your-face, unattainable.
But it’s..pretty. Pretty ugly.
Something I’d hang on my wall of glory just to prove that I can. And then there’s you-you’d probably bang your head against the frame, feeling your way through the dark.
Perfection has never been such a Utopian concept.
Your flaws settle themselves under my skin, a layer under the layer, so you don’t hurt me, but I’d hurt myself anyway. Your ‘protection’ doesn’t stand a chance.
What’s the point of being an escapist if I can’t escape myself?
Fight or flight?
Float.

Hey You

I sit there bleeding my heart out to you, gesticulating wildly with my hands, crying with my mouth, swirling the voices in my head with a spoon and letting you taste them.
“Enough”, you say firmly, grabbing me by the shoulders and looking straight into my lying hazel eyes, “You need to stop thinking so much.”
“What do you want me to do?” I ask, squirming under your gaze.
“Why can’t you just..be? You’re killing yourself slowly. No one cares anyway. Get over yourself.”
I pull your hair and hold you to it.
You breathe in under the weight of my hand on your head, clenching your fists.
You wouldn’t dare.
“What do you want?” you say quietly.
For once I think about it and as always I stare blankly at the colours in your hair mutely screaming at the Voice in my Head that calls out to you.
I can feel the answer throbbing through my veins, curling in my blood stream, shimmering through my hair.
I leave yours and run.
Fast.
Away.
They say that whatever you’re running away from will always catch up with you.
Where are you?
I’m falling.
Come find me before Gravity steals you for herself.
Slut.

Narcissist inc.

My Idea of Hell is a roomful of mirrors, look directly into one and it cracks. The mirrors metamorphosize you, each one holding someone you love trapped, torn, in pain. Touch it, and they die, smile and they bleed deeper, cry louder, hurt more.
You stare at their faces and are forced to think of situations where they’ve been contorted in the same positions, hearts bleeding, eyes red and swollen, body contracting, moments where their faces are contorted in grief, instances where their bodies look like they can shatter at the least touch, a hug, anything, nothing.
And then you remember. They blind you, your memories. Once you start, you can’t stop.
That’s your mother, the day you told her you hated her, threw that ugly glass vase, an antique, slammed the door in her face and stalked off to smoke up.
That’s your sister, the day you screamed at her and called her a promiscuous bulimic bitch. You begged for her to die and laughed as she held the cold silver kitchen knife to her thin veined hands, so like yours.
That’s your brother, the day you broke his nose with your tennis racket and how you refused to apologize because he ‘told that boy you had a thing for that you had a thing for him’.
That’s you father, the day you failed math and told him you wanted to drop out of school and be a bartender, the day you screeched at him for loving you less and ran away for the night.
That’s your best friend.
That’s your ex boyfriend.
That’s your favourite cousin.
That’s your soulmate….
Round and round and round
They’re all there, their pain tearing scars across your body and your mind.
Only you can make them stop, take it back, kiss their hurt away and bandage their wounds.
But you can’t.
You’ve lost the choice.
Welcome to Hell.

You can't hide the cracks

I feel broken lately, hollow.
I’ve lost even the miniscule part of me that wants to pretend to be happy because somehow, it’s just not worth it.
I see you, in your boxers and your Maiden tee shirt and your hair and your eyes and your converse and your madness and I expect to feel something, anything.
But I don’t.
And you don’t want me.
Who would? I’m young and depressing, I smile with my mouth and sit in corner almost begging for peace. I don’t twirl my hair around my fingers, I don’t touch you when I talk to you, I let you tickle me without bothering to squirm and when I tell you I don’t feel, I mean it.
Any hot blooded male would lose interest so I don’t blame you.
The problem here is..I lied.
I do feel. But I feel when I least expect it and when it hits me it’s like I can’t breathe.
I’m drowning underwater and my senses have been numbed. I’m not flailing about, I’m watching the sharks, eager almost, to catch the blue turn red.
Sometimes I think I want you but then I see the side of you that is human with its imperfectness-the way you burp and think it’s funny, how you scratch your head when you’re thinking, the way you drum anything right in front of you, the feeling in your eyes which makes you human, the catch in your voice and the way you say ‘what else’ when you don’t want me to hang up but mostly, I hate that you don’t WANT me, not really.
I’m just there, in between, someone who’ll call you back cause you don’t have balance, someone who’ll come for a walk or a movie cause all your friends are out of town..you don’t care.
But like I said, I don’t blame you.
I’m not worth it.
You deserve someone who wants to live.
Baby boy, I'm a blur.
Run.

Life line, Life lies

You don't know what it's like. This..cage. Beautiful smooth grills, pretty painted nothingness, sullied oxygen that lets you live only so it can watch you die.

You want to know what the greatest hoax in the history of mankind is? God? Close enough. Fucking Hope hanging herself from the streetlamps, skinning us alive, curling her claws around our dreams and giving us something to look forward to,

And then, Hope dances for us, doesn't she? Pretty Hope. All silk stockings and tutu skirts, ball gowns and football jerseys, tuxedos and leather, whatever turns you on,

Only to distract you from the cruelty of Life while he steals you of everything you have ever loved.

Partners in Crime.

They've leeched us of our life blood, only to do it again, and again. Till we look Hope in the eye and take Life into our own hands, Till she cries a lovers sorrow and he reeks of murder, Till we are left with blood staining our hands,

And we will never know whether it is ours or theirs.
Sometimes, we are dead with Hope and in Life long before Death strangles us with his cape.

They call it suicide. I blame those two, Partners in Crime.

Under my Skin

The sun smolders at us as we make our way through the people haze of chaos and traffic and insanity.
You curb the wisps of smoke curling around your fingers and catch me watching.
You shrug. I look away.
“Heyy.. How’d you get that?” you ask, pointing at the pattern of scars on my elbow.
I breathe in the threads of smoke that encircle us both and tell you about the time I jumped off a moving train.
“Fucking Supergirl”, you say, laughing.
“It was a Bandra fast thingy okay”, I say defensively “Trains aren't really my thing. Plus, I was late.”
You smirk at the pious expression on my face.
“What happened then?”
“I flew, fell, almost died, went to the hospital to meet my dad, I was supposed to go there anyway, he was doing the whole doctor rounds thingy, he saw me, put me onto a hospital bed with those cool shiny lights everywhere and got like 5 nurses. I kept telling everyone I was fine. They told me to count to 10 and spell my name backwards. It’s not like I can even do that on a normal basis so whatever..”
I can see you fight the urge to say something I will kick you for so I kick you anyway. Just in case.
“I was fine though. He cleaned the friction burns and sent me for a brain scan. I tried running away. They caught me.”
Your eyes capture the sun and for a minute all I can is count colours.
“You like it, don’t you?” you say, watching me caress the slight roughness that has embedded itself under my skin.
“I collect them,” I say, stealing your smile as you reach out to hold my hand. The scars are woven into their own story and the webs have left the footprints of spiders all over body.
You ask for more scar stories, so I tell you.
I tell you about the time I almost died when I was five 'cause I fell in the bathroom and my father stiched up the back of my head on the dining table. Yes, we still eat there. No, I don’t remember it hurting. No, It hasn’t affected my psychological, mental or physical health and if you ask one more question, I will break your face.
I tell you about the time my family went for picnic, I must have been seven, and I cut myself on the sharp ugly divider that they put in pools to separate the baby pool from the ‘big’ pool. You grimace and hold my hand tigher when you hear about the blood in the water and the 10 stiches. Your grip relaxes and you throw your head back and laugh when I tell you about how my father stitched up my knee on a blue and white checked deckchair beside the pool with all of us in our swimsuits. How everyone clapped when he finished and smiled and how I remember this one old couple trying to distract me by making me guess the colour of their towel.
I tell you about the time I was running a race on sports day and I tripped and skidded across the grass and mud,biting the dust and how my body burned and even though I’d been coming First I lost to a girl I’d beaten in all the heats. That bit more than anything else. I still remember the sun schorching my dreams and how I limped across the finish line and how everyone else in the stands stood up and cheered. And how I collapsed once I crossed only to be surrounded by my parents and everyone who’d run the race and the coaches and…
“Always the Drama Queen”, you say, pulling at my curls. I consider screaming ‘Balatkaar’ in the middle of the road to prove your point but fortunately for you, I desist.
I tell you about the time that huge beautiful dog Sandy bit me on my arm and I now have the imprint of a dogs’ tooth.
I only tell you about the scars you can see.
You know that.
You play with my fingers and as you bend down to kiss me I can already feel a scar ripping itself a smiley face on my heart.
The sun blinds us and burns the skin on my face. I can already imagine two stripes of lighter skin when I take off my chappals.
It’s ironic, isn’t it, how absorbing light makes us dark.
You breathe into me and the scar on my heart sears, burning darker.
Another one bites the dust.

I'm Fine?

“So,” she says looking at me expectantly, “How is she?”
I swirl the sambar in my plate. “She’s..fine. Busy with school n all, y’know.”
“But don’t you miss her”, she prods, waiting for me to burst into tears or flames or some sort of emotion.
I don’t.
“I do,” I say, getting up to return my plate, slipping into a new mask, smiling with my mouth to show her that I’m fine too.

Remember when you had your boards and I was done with mine, we only met like every weekend?
I was fine cause I knew you were only a street away, the big yellow building, like the light at the end of the tunnel, all I had to do was turn up.
I was fine.
I am fine.
I still like to think that you’re only a street away, the big yellow building, like the light at the end of the tunnel, all I have to do is turn up.
So I don’t miss you.

My mother just walked in.
“How was your paper?”
“Fine, yeah umm..good. I finished it. My essay kickedass.”
“What do you have tomorrow?”
“Political Science”
“How much have you done?”
“Like umm..1 no 2, like 2 and a half chapters..”
“How many do you have?”
“1..2..3..4, yeah 4, no wait 5.”
She gives me a wry look, been there done that.
“Well, go on”, she says sitting down, “I’ll just sit here and read.”
I give her The Look. I look down at my book.
It’s upside down.
It’s been upside down.
Sometimes, it’s easier to read upside down.
She gives me The Look, “The only person you’re fooling, is yourself,” words of wisdom.
I feel this maniacal urge to burst into laughter or flames or some sort of emotion.

I know, I know.

Don't waste your time on me you're already
The voice inside my head
I miss you.

Hit the Floor

"You do know right, that you don't want him", he says, twirling the ball on his fingers, bouncing it away from me.
"Fugg off", I say eloquently, trying to snatch the ball away from him.
He dodges me laughing and jumpshots it into the ring.
Score.
Bastard.
"You're in love with the Idea of him, baby girl", he's in his element now, swerving through imaginary opponents, smirking for a silent audience.
"I am Not", I counter defensively, digging my nails into his arm.
He yelps.
"We think alike", I say snidely, unable to tell apart the thud of the basketball from my heart. What if, when you lie, you body doesn't give you away by tell-tale signs like your nose growing, it hurts you by keeping silent and shriveling up instead?
"Find me more people who think like I do and..."
"Hey", he says smiling, he's closer now, too close.
Where's the damn ball.
"I'm right here", he whispers, aii not you goddammit, the ball.
And then he's kissing me and I can smell his sweat and his thoughts and that sweet cloying scent that belongs to him alone, and to my past. Revulsion rises in my throat stealing me of the little humanness I have left.
"I don't want you, I want him", I'm crying as I shove him off me. The ball is miraculously in my hand. It isn't warm anymore, I can't hear it's heart beat.
He smiles sadly.
Sweat and tears mingle down his face and I can no longer tell the difference. I mirror him. I turn away.
"And you'd let Him kiss you?"
I don't answer.
I arc the ball into the basket.
It misses.

Can't stop

And I sit there stringing the beads of sweat on my skin, dismantling a phone that hates me.

My breath has worn out the glass and my reflection smokes upside down.

The breeze coming in through the window grazes my skin and I sense your shadow seep into my blood burning it black.

It stains the bathmat and no amount of water can get it out.

The smiley-faces slit on the soft inner skin of my wrist no longer smile back.

I swirl designs and they stumble into words, ugly brutal words that make me catch my breath and hold it as a test against time.

One message. 20 letters. 5 words.

The nail scissors has always been kept in that little red basket on the shelf above the sink.

Pretty scissors, shiny metal, shiny red metal.

"I can't take this anymore."

Neither can I.

Shot

"But I love you", she slurred pulling at his hand, tongue-ing the air.

"Stop it. I have to go", he looked at her like he'd never seen her before, like a dream gone bad.

"Don't go. Say you love me", she screeched, crying, falling without his support, spilling into the void she had created.

He carelessly disentangled himself from her claw like embrace. He could barely conceal the disgust in his eyes.

"Take care", he said, turning away, sensing her slip against her reflection.

She slid against the mirror, watching her walk away with him while only a shadow paid tribute to see the blood stain her heart, the one she wore everyday, the one he had bought her.

She stumbled drunkenly through the glittering mass of half naked bodies that weaved in and out of each other, playing with her vision and messing with her mind.

The vodka that has fizzed through her veins giving her confidence and power now felt like poison. It rose through her, reminding her that power only stayed long enough to watch you split into the pieces it presented you the knife for.

She wanted to run but she could barely walk. She staggered dazedly through the smoke and lights she could no longer see, pausing only long enough to notice that they could see her.They were watching her, or atleast they were checking out her skirt the size of a college textbook and the heels that could be used as a murder weapon.

Black kajal butterflied down her cheeks staining her heavily made up face. She looked down, swishing her hair into her eyes, she'd used her hair to protect her before, used it to veil her face.

Did you know that veil was another anagram for evil?
The things we hide.

Lipgloss and eyeshadow and killer heels and cleavage boosting shiny swathes of cloth barely cover anything, even on the inside.

[Don't read too much into it. It's only words.
Now shutup and get back to your Distopia]

Half

Today,
My kajal bled into your smile as we untangled the wires connecting our hearts.
The cord led me to you but I couldnt find you through the people haze of ring tones and beeps and boundaries.
You were always on the other side of the window.
But today,
The window is silent, it's glass opaque,
And I can do nothing but try and overhear your heartbeat through the silent noise of the telephone.
And I curse technology for flying you away and leaving me with pieces I am forced to pick up,
Like your voice that slices through the darkness, tantalising my emotions but evading my half-hearted clutch into nothingness.
You voice that plates my armour and paints on my make-up,
Your voice that has switched to the other side.
And as always,
I want more.

Disturbia

You were never close enough for me to join the scars that dot your face.

But if you were, I'd make sure that the marker I used, was Permanent.

Drag'on fire

When it comes down to it, everyone's a whore.
A book whore, a boyfriend whore, a music whore, a drug whore, a math whore, a video game whore, a clothes whore, a money whore, an attendance whore, a chocolate whore...
All you have to do is peel away the layers of sophisticated prostitution and you're back to square one. There are some things you would do anything for, or anyone.

And there is always someone you would do anything for, or anyone.

Irony?

If you stop talking, do you lose your voice?
If you stop listening, do you lose your power to hear?
If you stop seeing, do you lose your sight?
If you stop loving, is it possible to lose your heart, to block the rush of blood that breathes into the rest of your body, do you lose your power to live?

How do you restart your body?

"One of the reasons why we crave love, and seek it so desperately, is that love is the only cure for loneliness, and shame, and sorrow. But some feelings sink so deep into the heart that only loneliness can help you find them again. Some truths about yourself are so painful that only shame can help you live with them. And some things are just so sad that only your soul can do the crying for you."
- Gregory David Roberts (Shantaram).


Everyone has their reasons.
Every whore has her addictions.
Every junkie has his beautiful high.
I call it Death.

Behind these Hazel Eyes

I always thought you were a bit of an idiot.

I still remember the first time I met you.
I couldn't take my eyes off you. I was mesmerized by the long crazy hair, the eyebrow piercing and your slow easy smile. The fact that your shirt was off and you were playing guitar didn't help.
Were you sober then?
I can't seem to remember.
I don't think so though, I don't think I've ever seen you sober.
You watched me watch you and then you smirked. I looked away. You laughed. Your eyes were hazel in the light. You smelt of Malboros and Davidoff and woodsmoke.
You were beautiful, even in the dark.
You were my new addiction.

You were a swimmer, weren't you?
That would explain the muscle and raw energy. I used to come just to watch you take the plunge and sweep through the water with strong polished strokes. I couldn't get enough of you.
Your fingerstips were calloused, rough and cynical like your moods. Guitar made you happy but twisted your fingers.
You used to sing to me, you know. I miss that the most. In that husky smokers' voice, like you were going to kill me and kiss me all in one minute.
You were beautiful, even when you were angry.
I remember I hid your favourite converse once, just to piss you off, just to watch your eyes darken and your hair curl. You needed to 'Get Out'. You couldn't find them. You held my shoulders and shook me. It hurt. Were you sober? I don't remember.
You scared me, you know.

You used to cry in your sleep, did you know that? Baby tears. I never knew what to do. I used to hold you and sing to you. Nursery rhymes, rap, anything soft and rhythemic.
You were smart. Too smart. We all knew that. You escaped whenever you could and left behind a web of lies to placate us. The minute you smiled you had us exactly where you wanted us to be. We missed the signs. We never thought..we never knew..

I can't believe you jumped.
I miss you.
You are my favourite scar.

Idiot.

Lost

Have you ever stood in the midst of a crowd and felt completely and utterly alone?

Maybe I enjoy that feeling. From where I'm standing, it means that I will never be one of them.
Skewed perception?
I don't care.
I can't bring myself to. (This is what comes of being told that I'm the female version of Draco Malfoy. Bastards.)
Either I get too emotionally involved or I'm watching life graze past me.
Tourist.
Easy.
I will only miss you if you make a difference to my life.
I'm not selfish or even self absorbed, I'm honest.
Most people think that anyway, give me credit for being open about it.

You know what the irony of the situation is?
Even though I'll never consciously admit that I miss you, I will invariably dream about you.
It's hazy and real all at once and I wake up with the feeling of the sun burning up my skin reminding me that you're no longer here. I'm filled with an aching emptiness, a longing I spend my waking hours working to expel.
I've never been able to escape these dreams. Even as a child, emotion always caught up with me here. I'd wake up with tears streaming down my face confused as to why this didn't happen when I fell and there was a beautiful patch of blood on my knee or when those boys were teasing me or when I got a C in math...
It never struck me as Repression.

My body has begun to hate me.
I know I'm not fat, not even close (this is the result of years of drilling and standing in front of the mirror and 'people' telling me they wish they had my 'figure'. Figure? pah)
Still, I hate the sight of me. Nothing is long enough. I've tried multiple layers and socks and skinny jeans and skies of black, I've taken to wearing my mothers' big old tee-shirts and my brothers' huge 'boy' ones (if he doesn't make me pay 100 bucks every time he catches me stealing them).
Girl doesn't even come close.
I fight to hide my skin and face but the Indian weather always wins.
I end up with a messy ponytail and hair all over my face. People ask me how I do it. I don't know what to say.

Am I the girl in black, with blank eyes who sits in the middle of it all scribbling about nothing?
Am I the girl with more friends than she can count and none to turn to when all she wants is to disappear?
Am I the girl who steals feelings and hearts because she lost her own somewhere along the way?
Am I the girl with a plastic smile and innate retardedness, a front she puts on to prove she's real?
Am I the girl who wants the guy she can't have?
Am I the girl who loves drama because it means there is a story and conventionally stories have happy endings?
Am I the girl who's so caught up in being herself that she forgets to remember that the world exists.
Am I the girl who sets no targets at all for fear of disappointment and rejection?
Am I the girl who confuses reality and fantasy as easily and one would confuse Coke with Thums Up?
Am I beautiful because you love me or do you love me because I'm beautiful?
Am I scarred?
Am I scared?

Don't bother telling me, I'd rather run into a mirror.

Because you're worth it

- A - says:
so whats happening with the boy scene?
- N - says:
it sucks
- A - says:
no one nice's around?
- N - says:
I suddenly realised that i've waited so long so the boy im waiting for might as well be worth it
- A - says:
dont worry someone pretty great will come along and even if he isnt pretty great.. you need to kiss all the fish blah blah... in the meantimes.. fuck that shit just chill with your girlfriends and enjoy your single life cause when your 30 and married on the brink of having kids and under stress youll wonder why you were looking for a guy at 17 anyway
- N - says:
hahahhahahhaa I knoww!! but 17 is when you're young and feel beautiful and you're real somehow and I dont want to waste it
- A - says:
you're not wasting it! just because you dont subject yourself to ONE guy doesnt mean your not making great use of your youth! look around you, everyone in a relationship wants to be single.. everyone just want to have fun and feel nice.. some people definition of this "fun" is being sluts.. but for the smart ones like us .. happiness is just when you laugh at something random and realise that at THAT very moment your happy and know that a lot of girls would kill to be in your place . so smile baby. you have a great life
- N - says:
I saw it that way but sometimes I want to be somebody elses', someone who exclusively cares for me..lets face it..my girlfriends have other girlfriends..so its different. plus, to be honest, im suffering from make out withdrawal and a smart 'guy' perspective
- A - says:
haha dont worry, some one great will come along he'll find you. i promise
- N - says:
So I'll wait? start working on world peace and global warming and why boys are cheats and liars in the meantime, do the whole princess in the tower jazz, grow my hair
- A - says:
no you dont HAVE to wait! you have to have fun and forget about wasting your time waiting for a BOY! even if he is perfect he doesnt deserve you! so just chill. hell come he might go . but its all about the experience and learning and living... until obviously that dreaded day come when your married and your life is just history
- N - says:
wow..marriage sounds like hell..so, i'll live
- A - says:
good
- A - says:
and when the time does come for you to be married. il tell you how awesome it can be til then just feel great about everything. its your life chill
- N - says:
How diplomatic
- A - says:
it more than fair right now baby, its brilliant. you just need to look at it in a different angle
- N - says:
changing ground and perspective..yeah.. I kinda stopped living for a bit, turned into Tourist, laughed at the others in their cages, didnt bother escaping mine
- N - says:
I realise now that that's stupid
- A - says:
very
- A - says:
but maybe its not.
- A - says:
live life the way you want.. if being "out of it" makes you happy then be it.. if your hapy waiting then wait! but if your smart then live for yourself , NOT some silly little heartbreaker
- N - says:
I'm with you
- N - says:
I think I expect too much though, of the world and of myself
- N - says:
and im scared I wont live up to it so I decide not to do anything at all, why take the risk if all i'll face is disappointment?
- A - says:
cause then youll know how to fix it. youll learn . youll grow . take a risk.. the only thing youll regret is not doing what you wanted to
- A - says:
you're already on the right track
- N - says:
its filled with diversions
- A - says:
the track doesnt have to be straight. the diversions are just a part of it
- N - says:
it doesnt end and its crowded. sometimes it would be so much easier to just sit down and watch
- A - says:
so sit down and watch . take your break get back up when your ready. its your dream. your path. your life! it goes whichever way you want it to . shapes into whatever the hell you want. u just need to master the trick of getting it
- N - says:
the trick? the trick.
- A - says:
the trick is different for everyone. the same trick doesnt apply to everyones lives. its just the way YOU do things, with your own touch in it. get what you want bottomline. think it , have it
- N - says:
the secret.
- A - says:
there is no secret baby. it all in you . theres no specific secret! you just need to figure out yourself and the only person who can help you with that it YOU! cause you know yourself the best. even though sometimes your confused and you feel like your watching yourself from the sidelines. its still you that has all control. when your on the sidelines your telling your body what to do. youv reached a point from where its possilbe for you to see things in a different angle. use it wisely cause its a good thing
- N - says:
it could be a curse. but then again, oil changes colour in the sun
- A - says:
you can be whatever you want to be. dont let yourself be judged by society. make your own lines set your own limits , draw your own nirvana , conquer your own fears and master happiness. do all that and youl never think twice about how your life is.
- N - says:
that would make me god
- A - says:
pretty much , your own god. but it isnt hard. trust me.

I Do =)

August Rush

‘August’, I plead, watching the days slip through my frost-bitten fingers, cold and unfeeling, stealing me of my warmth, ‘Don’t go’.
‘Don’t rush’, I beg, in a powerless attempt to protect my heart beneath her heels, ‘Keep it safe’.
August laughs, bitter and derisive.
‘Time’s a bitch. She shows no sympathy for the weak.’
‘I’m not weak’, I oppose, tiredly. ‘I just can’t..don’t want to face it.’
‘Be brave, my child’
Oho! How comforting.
‘I’m scared. With your departure arrives change.’
‘The only thing permanent is change.’
How fucking tranquillizing.
I choose my next words carefully, posing for callous.
‘When you leave, I’ll be forced to fight loss and heartbreak and impending exams and renewed memories and tears and growing older. Stay. Please?’
I’m a bad poser.
August can’t stop moving.
I feel sick.
I expected sun with a touch of dead leaf and inner peace.
Hah.
‘I can’t’, she says, frustration etched into her laugh lines.
‘Why not’? I push sulkily, the winds of change forcing me forward with each breath I take.
‘It doesn’t work like that. Life, remember?’
‘Life’s a bitch too’? I press, eagerly almost, waiting for the raw sweet taste of gossip to melt in my mouth.
August smirks, ‘You make it, you tell me’.
I’m starting to get jittery. Life keeps forgetting to let me live. I don’t like it very much.
‘She’s going away---my interpreter, my weakness, my strength, my glimpse of what’s real. Freeze, for me?'

August is starting to fade.
Bitch.
‘I won’t be able to survive without her.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Please stay?’
Stay
Stay
Stay
Don’t go.
Stay bitch.
No.
I grab what’s closest to me. Mirror Mirror on the Wall..
Fragments of broken glass,

January
February
March
April
May
June
July
Blood, heat and the smell of burnt leaves

Bye-bye August
Come again.

Self Defense, I swear.

Paint Box

Sometimes, I think I could sleep My Life away.
Sometimes, I almost know it.
But then I feel guilty because that would mean, by society's definition, that I have wasted it.
Young, smart, talented, beautiful blah blah blah she made nothing of her life.
I Did, you presumptious bastard, I built castles in the air!
Doesn't count. LALALALALALAALALALALALLAA

If I die now, today, at 17 and 141 days, what would I leave behind?
People would remember me--family, friends, people, I'll concede to that. But would they remember me, or just their idea of me?
The thought depresses me.
I know i'm a dot in the greater scheme of things and all that jazz, but a figment of imagination?
Ouch.
Wanna know the worst part?
All I've done is live.
Being alive?
That's a different story altogether.
I pity me, even though, I'd hate you if you did.

If I were a colour, I'd be lavender with shades of black and the occasional flash of red.
Or maybe i'm a dirty slate grey that the other colours fail to recognise and accept into the inner cirle.
Or pink with a hint of pale green and a dash of baby blue.
Or clashes of orange and red outlines with thin lines of brown.
Or magenta-esque with spots of off white.
Or plain yellow.
I am glass.
Reflective, transparent, absorbent with no personality of her own.
But, with a cutting egde.

I have this theory, that your hair mirrors your personality.
As a child you have beautiful soft cherubic curls reaking of innocence and naivety.
As you grow older, the curls harden, they become cynical and course, malleable with an edge. Sometimes your hair become almost whip like, or messy and unmanageable, a tangle of lost translations.
Twisted.
You can disguise your hair, you know.
Straighten it, perm it, suffocate it with masses of serum and gel and heat and matted colour and strands of pink and red and blonde hair dye.
It's so easy to disguise you.
It's so easy to change your personality.

If a chameleon is constantly changing colour, does it have an original colour, or does its own voice and paint get so over-ridden by change and cameoflage that it loses it?
I wouldn't know, would I?

Don't mind me.
Funerals can do strange things to a person.

Take That

I've wasted so much time spinning silken threads of camouflage and deceit that they have danced themselves around me, closer and closer, like in the first blush of love, carefully then callously till they bind me in their grip---a Mummy of our generation.

I ache to turn my back on it, but I can't. If I did, it would be like stepping out of a painting with the Real Me caught in the time warp while only an impression walks away.

'Cheater', you'd hiss convulsively.

Maybe, maybe.

'I might grow into the impression though', I'd tell you defensively.

'You won't', you'd say, much too fast for my liking, 'You'd only be a shell of yourself, devoid of emotion and masks and the drama that you feed on, your addiction.'

My addiction is beginning to tighten its chokehold around me. It has me paralysed and the only reason I can see is because I have learnt to close my eyes.

'You won't be able to function without it', you'd mutter prophetically, 'You'll waste away with nothing to hold on to.'

Shedding skin doesn't hurt, does it?

'No one wants to talk to a shadow', you'd taunt, 'You're in the midst of it all, a main character, a beautiful one a wild one. Why leave?'

Why indeed?

Then it hits me.

'You're jealous.', I'd gasp in wonderment, ' You've lost the choice.'

I choose.

The Mummy moans.

You fall back into the silken threads of camouflage and deceit that at one time, seduced you into thinking they were real.

I'm limping, running, soaring away. Breaking free.

You, you can't even see.

Take a Bow

“Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?” – Prof. Albus Dumbledore

"Why? Why won't he let me touch him?"
"Uhh..what dyu mean?"
"Everytime I get within human distance of him he acts like he's been burnt! I mean, what the hell man, it's like i'm Rouge from X freakin Men!"
"She's hot."
"Oooo I know with the sexy white stripe n all but shoo we're digressing..."
"Burnt?"
"Yeah! He ..I don't know..he jumps back, moves away..why can't we just..hug..and be friends? Or something."
"You want to hug and be friends?" *rolls eyes*
"Yeaaa..."
"And play football with him and get whacked on the back with a 'yo ssupp dude' and go drinking together and watch porn together and wear those dirtty jeans that hang below your..."
"Whoaa..I don't want to be a boy-esque friend."
"But that's what you will be na, now that he's done with you."
"Stop it."
"......" *stares blankly into space and hums 'Thick as Thieves' under breath*
"I leaned forward to hug him and..he pushed me away. Like he couldn't stand the sight of me. Like he didn't want to get his hands dirty. It hurt."
"You hurt him."
"Yea but not intentionally, that just...happened."
"So did this."
"I hate you. I hate him."
"No, you don't."
"I know."
"......"
"He acts like I don't exist. we pass each other every single day and I don't exist"
"Ouch."
"When that happens, I don't feel Real somehow. I'm so used to leaning into him, having him hold me, listening to him breathe.. It's not even like he ignores me. I'm just Not There. Maybe I never was. Maybe I just made it all up in my head."
"But you're here. And i'm talking to you."
"Sometimes, I feel like the rest of the worlds' imaginary friend. It's ironic how one person can change the way you see yourself."
"How does him opinion matter anyway?"
"I wish I knew. When I see him, I.."
"Yeeeeaaas?" *nods encouragingly*
"I feel invisible."
"Get used to it."
"I can't."
"What do you want?"
"I...I want him to acknowledge me."
"You want him to nod his head in your general direction?"
"No."
"A wave of the hand as manner of greeting?"
"No."
"A smile, a hug, a jog around the block, star spangled banners, sex on toast?"
"NO."
"Why not? Huh? Huh?"
"Because i'm not one of Them." *spits out word*
"Now you are."
"Don't."
"What did you expect?"
"Nothing."
"Good. 'Cause that's exactly what you got."

It's just words. It doesn't have to be someone I know you know. Stop. It's not him.

Patience

The only reason people hold on to memories so tight is because memories are the only thing that doesn't change when everything else does.

Now you know.

Leave.

The Pursuit Of Happyness

7:30 Alarm rings.

7:45 Alarm rings again. Girl groans. Girl retreats beneath blanket and pillow to the accompanimant of Girl's sister shrieking 'Turn that fucking thing off, you never wake up when it rings anyway'. Girl hits the snooze button.

8.00 Alarm rings. Girl contemplates throwing alarm out of window then realises that alarm=phone which is a neccessary daily equipment and has become like body part. Sister dismantles alarm. Sister vents by kicking Girl. Girl appears to be asleep.

8:30 Girl's mother kisses her goodbye leaving behind a list of instructions and a whiff of pefume. Said mother also draws back curtains almost blinding Girl. Girl resorts to sleeping on her stomach.

9:30 Girl is late.

9:45 Girl has managed to successfully sit upright in bed. Girl realises she needs attendance. Girl attempts superhuman jump off bed which results in banging shin against bed. Girl mutters 'fuck' under breath.

10:05 Girl manages to shower, brush teeth etc. but is unable to find appropriate (i.e. ironed, decent, sensible) collegewear which leads to a pile of unironed colourful inappropriate clothes on bed. Housekeeper yells at said Girl to put all clothes back 'netly'. Girls nods vehemently and continues search.

10:13 Girl manages to locate yesterdays jeans under chair. Girl pulls a tee shirt off the clothesline, realises tee shirt is still damp and resorts to wearing a long sleeved tee inside said damp tee shirt.

10:25 Girl has been forced to eat breakfast under the instructions of the neo fascist dictators a.k.a parents. Girl pours milk into brothers empty glass even though he has left for school.

10:30 Girl leaves house.

10:31 Girl realises it is pouring.

10:33 Girl rushes back up but is unable to locate windsheater which she realises she 'misplaced' at Malhar last year. Girl finds pink umbrella. Girl takes pink umbrella. Girl leaves to the accopmaniment of the housekeeper screaming out her name with added Assamese curses.

10:37 Girl gets onto bus. Girl spends entire 10 minutes of bus journey trying to put her kajal on 'neatly'. Gives up. Decides to tell those who ask (i.e everybody) that she has successfully achieved the smoky eye look.

10:40 Girl is unable to find her lip balm. Decides to kill sister. Messages said sister who replies saying she is in class and Girl had left lip balm on the table so she 'took it'. Girl mutters choice expletives under breath receiving strange looks from accompanying passengers.

10:45 Girl enters class after fighting with watchman at gate over loss of ID card. Girl promises watchman she will have it ready tomorrow. Girl is 15 minutes late for class. Girl exchanges excuses with the professor that include the words dog, train, aliens, rain, heels, sighting God etc. Teacher remains unimpressed and disbelieving.

10:48 Teacher appears to be fed up with students. administration, pay packet and the environment in general. She stops pretending to listen and instructs girl to sit on front bench. Girl complies.

11:20 Girl is too busy talking and misses attendance.

11:20-4:30 Day is spent putting up an appearance of 'I am listening' peppered with frequent nods of 'yes, I understand what you're saying and I genuinely care' in order to get attendence and to reach some sort of agreement with Them on her potential so she isn't forced to listen to 'please stay back after class' lectures which include the words 'calibre' and 'waste'.

Day is also interspersed with gossipping and soothing raw woulds. Also, snapping and then feeling guilty and then feeling angry for feeling guilty. There is a frequent change of masks throughout the day. The 'neutral' expression is used regularly which can be translated into 'I don't give a damn but I 'love' you, you're my soul sister etc. and hence I must listen to your woes and dissect with you every word the boy you claim to be 'in love' with ever said to you even though right now he's probably off doing God knows what with God knows whom'.

Day also involves bursts of laughter and times when Girl is happy to feel alive and loved.

1:00-1:50 Break. Girl is forced to face excessive calorie consumption and those she wishes were wiped off by a plague of locusts and/or a sea of pirhana. Girl continues to smile. Girl bonds with girlfriends, runs around like complete idiot, stands on tables, dances in the rain and in short uses up more than her fair share of embarressment quota.

3:00-5:00 Girl goes for football practise in the rain. Girl has not yet bought studs and thus spends majority of her time falling---and enjoying herself. Coach gives said Girl the death stare. Girl is made to run 7 extra rounds. Girl pretends she is dying after 5 and Coach takes pity on her and sends her off to wash up though in actual probabilty is probably scared that she might collapse.

5:27 Girl reaches home dirty, wet, tired, hungry.

5:32 Girl eats lunch. Girl is still hungry. Girl 'requests' Housekeeper to make Maggie.

5:43 Girl eats Maggie all the while watching a movie.

6:17 Movie is good. Movie involves its fair share of violence, sex and cute guys. Girl eats more Maggie.

6:40 Girl realises it is 6:40.

6:47 Girl has somehow, unimaginably managed to locate math book, glasses and enough money for bus journey. Girl feels responsible then remembers that class started at 6:45.

6:48 Girl leaves house dirty, dry, tired and still in football jersey.

6:50 Girl runs across roads and footpaths with complete disregard for traffic or people. Girl reaches bus stop safe but gives the appearence of an asthamatic supergirl. Girl spends next five minutes cursing buses, India, BEST, bus drivers, the people staring at her and God (not neccessarily in that order).

6:57 Girl contemplates taking a cab but then realises she is, at the moment financially unprepared. Girl curses parents. Girl takes back curse on realising that in the past 2 days she'd eaten at Leopold's, Subway, Mac and watched a movie.

6:59 Bus comes. There is a rush for said bus as it is rush hour. Girl is almost crushed to death but fights back valiantly kicking and elbowing when required. Glasses stupidly clutched in fist (on account of Girl's reputation and self esteem) gets crushed in the process.

7:01 Girl spends bus journey singing to herself and deciding that time 'doesn't reaaally matter as it goes against her religious beliefs and creats boundaries'.

7:17 Girl runs like complete retard only to find that Math Tutor has locked the door from the inside. Girl curses Math Tutor. Girl knocks timidly, finds no response, grins to self and decides to leave.

7:23 Guilt seeps in. Girl waits outside door trying to send vibes of 'open the goddamn door!'. Girl has a beautifully constructed excuse about an important match and is happy to find that looking dirty has its advantages. Vibes remain uncaught. Girl stands on street outside class.

7:27 Girl feels like hooker wearing football jersey. Street is not a nice street.

7:31 Girl faces dilemma as to whether to catch a cab, bus, train or simply walk home. Girl curses all those who have bombed public transport and her financial situation. Girl mentally agrees that the above mentioned modes of transport appear to be unsafe. Girl also realises that she has missed 3 math tests and if she misses class Math Tutor will call up Girl's mother and Girl fervently agrees with 'hell hath no fury like a woman scorned'.

7:33 Girl sees a boy walking towards her from next batch. Girl fights urge to kiss said boy. Girl finds out that next batch has class at 8 and thanks God also apologising for previous behavior (which include saying 'screw you God, you just sit there and Laugh! Yeah, laugh')

7:49 Girl enjoys herself making fun of people and laughing with kids from next batch. Girl considers switching batches. Girl spots cute guy and says hi. Cute guy says hi back giving her a weird look. Girl realises she is covered in a mud splattered football jersey.

8:00-10:00 Girl undergoes child torture and child labour a.k.a Math which she is convinced is illegal and has tried to convice her parents so. Parents think otherwise. Girl spends entire class banging head against wall on account of missing Junkyard Groove at HRC and texting friends who appear to be having Sex and the City-esque drinks.

10:27 Girl reaches home. Girl goes for shower. Girl eats dinner.

11:10 Girl stares at pile of study books. Girl picks up novel that she has read 948362 times before.

11:19 Girls' parents call her to bond and tell them about her day. Girl groans. Parents hear girl groan. Said parents get hurt, offended etc. and walk off.

11:42 Girl spends time doing damage control and talking about random jazz that happened in college making everyone laugh. Girl exaggerates and tends to distort reality. Mildly, of course.

11:47 Girl goes online.

11:48 Girl is disgusted with herself and her dependence on people who don't really 'exist'.

11:49 In a fit of defiance, Girl goes offline.

11:53 Girl gives in to animal instinct and Appears offline.

12:11 Girl helps herself to more food.

12:20 Girl finishes book. Girl is fed up of life.

12:23 Study books appear to be rudely staring at said Girl. Girl switches off the lights and puts on a movie. Movie is crap.

12:39 Girl's sister will Not stop talking loudly on the phone even after repeated warnings.

12:40 Girl throws pillow on said sister.

12:46 Girl gets call from friend who appears to be in a 'crisis situation'. Crisis situation has something to do with what to give bf on 2 week anniversary. Conversation drifts. Conversation includes bitching about 'friends'..'but I still love her', dissecting people, interpretation of life, love, what the perfect skirt for a first date would be, Gossip Girl, psycho analysing everyone, laughing etc. Girl's sister throws back pillow and tells her to shut up.

3:38 Conversation dies as phone finally gets cut due to low battery.

3:45 Girl stares at ceiling.

4:03 Girl falls off to sleep.

All I asked for was The Simple Life.

It can't be that hard...

Can it?

Hash

I can't sleep.

The Voice in my Head tears me apart with all that I could have done,
All that I should have done,
All that I didn't.
All that I did.

Focus on something good, I tell myself, resolutely optimistic, willing it to shutup.
Something good?
I stare down at my purple nails, at a complete loss.
Fine then, create a situation of uhh relaxation and beautifulness, Okay?
Okay.

You're lying down on a hammock on some serene, pristine, gorgeous island that no one has discovered yet.
Tan?, the Voice in my Head questions anxiously
No, you've got sunscreen on, I reassure it hurriedly.
You're wearing that swimsuit that you've always wanted but you've never been allowed to buy.
Waxed your legs?, the Voice in my Head interrupts maliciously
Ohshutup. It's my island and my fantasy and I have the perfect body..and umm..other cool body attributes like no body hair.
SO anyway, you're surrounded by a bevy(?) of hot men who...
Men, the Voice in my Head snorts contemptously

I want to poke it's eye out.

I content myself with pranayam instead.
Block all negative thoughts. No desires. No oh-my-god-I-can't-believe-I-did-that. No...
Breathe in,
Breathe out.

Stop.

Ooooo it's raining.

Shit. I need to stop getting distracted so easily.
Oh look, a shiny object.
Facebookhasalottoanswerfor

I don't know what to do anymore.
Everyone's changing.
*snap*
I started it.
But then I stopped.

I haven't changed, have I?
Except for the dark circles ringing my eyes and increasing shrillness of the Voice in my Head.

But I can face paint.
Masks? I'm a pro.

Kill the Voice in my head?

Half dead, they called her, half dead.

Crooked Teeth

I know her.
I know that she has a tiny scar next to her navel where her appendix was taken out.
I know that she's allergic to peanuts.
I know that she loves dogs but only the kind that don't drool too much and don't get hair all over her black clothes.
I know that she's in love with the idea of love.
I know that she wears that silver chain around her ankle because it's Lucky.
I know that she started smoking up because like everyone she knew she wanted to die almost as much as she wanted to live.
I know that she slips on dreams.
I know that she hates it when people leave.
I know that everytime she gets off a train her heart skips a beat.
I know that the only icecream she eats is the double chocolate chip brownie fudge ice cream at Baskins.
I know that when she smiles, her face face lights up and a beautiful dimple at the corner of her lips begs for you to smile back and when she crys, the dimple looks like a scar.
I know that if she were an animal, she'd be a tiger.
I know that any sign of weakness disgusts her.
I know that she plays with fire and collects masks.
I know that insects that fly scare her to death, that she would rather slay dragons than face a flying cockroach.
I know that the only reason she slashes on so much mascara is because she hopes to hide behind it.
I know that she knows every single word to 'All I want is you'.
I know that she still wishes on rainbows.
I know that when she'd had chicken pox at 7, she'd had an imaginary friend called Zara.
I know that when she's nervous, she bites her lip.
I know that she cried while watching Titanic but she didn't want anyone to see her cry so she bit her tongue instead.
I know that the only reason she learnt how to play football in the beginning was to impress him, but now she loves it more than she loved him when he existed.
I know that her favourite book is 'The Catcher in the Rye'.
I know that she has a tattoo of a butterfly on her lower back.
I know that she has a scar on her eyebrow which she got when she slipped in the bathroom when she was 5.
I know that every night, she fights with the shadows in her head, I know that she cries herself to sleep.
I know that she dyed her hair red so that it would shine and let her fade.
I know that she has a thing for vampires and drummers with long dark hair.
I know that she doesn't think she's beautiful.

I knew her.


I know him.
I know that his second toe is longer than his first.
I know that he at 8, he was convinced he was from Mars and spoke only in 'Martian' for a month.
I know that he modeled for a bit, but he hated it.
I know that he cut himself when he heard that his parents were going to get a divorce.
I know that he loves strawberries and cream and his favourite midnight snack is cold cereal.
I know that he wears a tee shirt and a shirt over that because he thinks he looks too thin without it.
I know that he says his ideal woman in Lara Croft from the xbox series because he can force her to do his will, and she never wears a bra.
I know that he'd rather rescue the spider than kill it.
I know that sometimes, the way he sees life scares him to death.
I know that he suffers from clausterphobia because when he was little he locked himself in a cupboard by mistake.
I know that he hates it when people eat from his plate.
I know that he's his own worst enemy.
I know that if he wrote a book he'd title it 'Confessions of an Escape Artist'.
I know that he had a pet cat called Darth Vader and after it died he swore he would never get another.
I know that if he were an animal, he'd be a wolf.
I know he had braces for 3 years and was mercilessly bullied about them.
I know that learnt how to wrestle cause he wanted to beat up his bullies. He did. He got suspended for a week. They never touched him after that.
I know thar he'd die without his guitar, his i-pod and the Voice in his head.
I know that his favourite Disney movie is the Lion King because 'he comes back'.
I know that the only toothpaste he uses is the red minty one.
I know that when he writes, he's bleeding himself out.
I know that the only thing he can 'cook' is Maggie.
I know that he smells of Mont Blanc and rain.
I know that he started smoking at 13.
I know that he only eats the blue M 'n' M's.
I know that he's ticklish.
I know that for him, the only thing permanent is change.
I know that he's scared of butterflies.
I know that whispers turn him on, that he hates secrets.
I know that everytime someone leaves he'd rather kill himself than show any emotion. It's happened too many times for him to care.

I knew him.


I know them.
I knew them.


They were.

Ooh la

Let’s just say you’re going out to meet someone, somewhere, anywhere and then, you see him/her/*insert appropriate pronoun here*,
But they don’t see you.

Appropriate protocol to attract their attention would be:

“Hey”,
Or something equally suitable.

Not,
“LOOK AT ME”

Ishouldn’tbeletoutduringtheday.

The Beautiful Letdown

I just realized why I’ve been so passive aggressive and insatiated and hormonal and a professional snapper lately,
I need to prove myself and I don’t know how.

I’m so filled with youthful fire and energy and unsaggy boobs and eyes which have the death stare down to an A+ and I’m wasting it being cooped up in this beautiful goth building with gargoyles for protection while I’m trapped in watching them out.

Inside out girl.

Which fucking retard chooses Arts with Math?!?

I mean Really.

*sighs*

I’m a self confessed math atheist.
No one seems to be taking religious views into account anymore.
Dammit.

Anyway, back to proving myself,
Aaaarghhh!!..why is it so hard for me to go with the flow? I know I will. I do.
So then why do I feel this constant need to pretend I’m different? (keyword: pretend)

Escapist?

Me?

Screw you.

In a world full of bitter pain
And bitter doubts
I was trying so hard to fit in
Fit in, until I found out

I don't belong here

We're still chasing our tails
In the rising sun
In our dark water planet still spinning
In a direction no one wins
No one's won.

See, I don't belong here

Or so I like to think.
Prove me right.

Please.

The Denial Twist

I know I’ve built you stronger and taller and more beautiful than you are but that’s the only way I’d take you.

The minute you begin to crumble under my cruel skillful fingers,
I will hate you.

How dare you?
How dare you steal from me what I always took to be mine?

Is it not enough that I crave the You I designed?

Don’t punish me.

You who have the power to breathe life into me or leave me bleeding death.

I want you.

“I have created a monster”

(Fine. I admit it. I want him. I'm not in Denial, it's just hormones =S)

Learning to Breathe

When I look out, all I see is you.
When you look out, all you see is you.

It's about time we changed position, don't you think?



I’ve wasted so many eyelashes wishing for you.

Now that you’re here,
I want them back.

Shed

Wanna know what my favorite button is?
I’ll tell you.

Delete.

I love it.
It melts like cotton candy in my mouth.
It is also the most delusional button ever invented.
So,
I send someone, anyone, a message, filled with pent up love or anger or waaay too much emotion for anyone of my..caliber..and all that jazz.
And then
Ohfuckgpoihrwpewknr I realize that *sighs* I shouldn’t have.
So,
Tada

Delete.

Gone
*poof*
Disappears

And I sit back and bask in the glow of pretending That never happened and I never felt like that and no one else knows I feel like that anyway. *smirks*

Catch?

You’ve gotten the message.
Delete doesn’t change a thing,
Except the skin of the voice in my head.

Smoke and mirrors never proved anything.
But then again, I’ve always been a huge fan of my reflection.

Haven’t I?

S@#$%R

Beautiful scars on the back of my hand spell out everything I’ve left behind as I watch you saunter before me and I walk the line you leave, strewn with thorns and blistered feet. But always, I chicken out and go back to the well worn dusty face in a crowd path that the world has stripped of its dignity.

I’ve turned away from you, often, but not intentionally.

More so because I hate seeing a constant mirror of myself when I’ve always thought me to be ugly.
Beautiful scars maybe, but ugly.

And as I smirk at the way you’ve started walking on air, dreaming in the world you created while reality batters at your window in all its cruelty,
I realize, that I envy you.

I envy your ability to fight for what you don’t want.

I watch them, the Others, and I hear what they have to say.
And the line between what they expect of me and what I expect of myself has become so blurred that by the time I grasp that I’m playing for their team, it’s too late.

I’m in.

But you?

You’re sitting in the stands and pointing and laughing.

I envy you.

Even though, I know, I’m the one with the trophy.

The opposit of Chocolate ~

She sat at the edge of the river, watching it glisten and bubble in the moonlight.

Her tears held her together as she traced shadows in the dark.

She hadn’t meant for it to happen.

Best friends!

He’d been there for her through her first heartbreak, held her hand through football tryouts and drama auditions, stayed with her over the phone every night when she realized she was scared of the dark, convinced her that the words ‘slut’ and ‘normal’ were relative, helped her write the Toast when her father remarried, held her when she cried over shattered dreams…

And slowly and steadily she fell for him. Him, the class president, the football captain, the young prince.

And now,

“I’m in love with you”, his voice was hoarse.

They were sitting on her roof, their favorite place.

His tall broad shouldered easy frame was pacing around, his jet black hair flopped carelessly into green eyes, he was the boy the girls swooned over, she was the girl they hated.

She sat there, she, with her long purple hair, eyebrow piercing, fishnet stockings and leather jacket.
She, with the tears in her dark eyes and the black nails she’d chewed down to nothing.
She, who couldn’t do this.

Not to him.

Not to the boy she was ‘in love’ with.

She couldn’t bear to lose him.

She knew how it worked, this beautiful meaningless circle of deception.

And she refused to prolong it.

“I’m sorry”, she said listlessly. “I don’t think of you in that way, you’re my best friend, I can’t…I’m sorry.”

She heard him breathe in sharply, she longed to kiss him, to let him know that her shroud of deceit was clawing him into a corner, not her.

But that meant she would have to reduce herself to being one of many. Part of the ‘List’ she’d once helped him draw. And they’d Laughed at the number of girls he’d kissed.
"And when did That happen, Dev?"
"I don't remember. Her hair smelt of rain though."

The voices in her head hurled abuse at each other as she stared numbly at peeling black nails.

She’d bitten off more than she could chew.

Again.

“I’m in love with you Naini”, he repeated hoarsely, grabbing the bull by the horns, reaching out for her.

She flinched.

She shouldn’t have worn red today.

He carelessly pulled his hand back and ran it through spiky black hair. His smoky green eyes looked troubled as he stared intently at her lowered lashes.

“Naina”, he whispered, “Look at me.”

She shook her head.

“You do…care, don’t you?” he asked, his breathing jagged.

She almost laughed through the sobs simmering in her.

Care?

She cared.

She cared enough to know that his friendship mattered more than the taste of his lips.
She cared enough to know she’d rather be the one he leaned on than the one who lost her balance.
She cared enough to know that he didn’t deserve her temper and her tears and the way she pulled everything out from under their feet when they least expected it.
She cared enough to know that there had been many before her and there were many to come and she recoiled from being one of ‘them’.
She cared enough to know that her best friend had been ‘in love’ with him and still was.
She cared enough to know that sooner or later she would be forced to face heartbreak from the one person who mattered.

She cared enough not to shatter him herself.

She faced him.

He shone for her. He always had. And she had been blinded by his light.

“I’m sorry”, she said numbly.

The voices in her head screamed in chorus as she got up and walked away.

The wind murmured her name, calling her back.

But she didn’t sway.

She sauntered off into the shadows as he watched her fade.

I want you, but I chose darkness.

As the wind whispered it back to him,
The boy wept.

~

So I almost died today.

Lost one of my lives at any rate.

Everyone watching thought I was flying.

But me?

I was falling.

And if you tell me one more time what a fucking idiot I am for jumping off a fast, moving train I will show you my scars and you will feel guilty.
Though I know, in your weird way which is so close to human but not quite, you’re telling me that you love me and that you’re happy I’m safe and alive.
And when I laugh at your awkwardness and your inability to express it, you will raise your eyebrows, thrash those parts of me that aren’t bruised and bleeding already and you will hug me

And I won’t know whether those are tears or a sheen of sweat cause you won’t let me see.

Me?

I’m crying.

No Air

Slow down, you crazy child
You're so ambitious for a juvenile
But then if you're so smart, tell me
Why are you still so afraid?
..................

“This can’t be it”, she muttered to herself, staring at the stiff unyielding paper she was twisting nervously in her hands.

“Anaka, stop it! Are you mad?” her mother reprimanded fiercely, snatching it out of reach, holding it up against the light to check for damages.

Anaka glanced absent mindedly at the sheet that inexplicably determined her future.
89.84% it said in stark embossed black and white.

She’d missed a 90% by one mark.

She could already imagine her parents letting the lie spill off their tongue as they proudly declared to anyone of consequence that their daughter had got a 90%.

Sounded so much better, they told her later, than a drab 89. whatever. She wondered if they’d stick to their word of a puppy present if she got a 90. She doubted it. It’s ironic how effortlessly we fail those we are entrusted to.

She could already envision her future stretching blindly in front of her.
Xaviers maybe, Law School after that, years of internships, a steady income, marriage, a house, a car, 2 kids, a pension, family holidays..round and round and round.
And the circle of life was supposed to reek of stability.
Hah!
She felt sick.
This isn't what she wanted.
She wanted to backpack through Europe
Learn the language of the stars
Dance in the moonlight
Date every sun sign
Work on a safari in Africa.
Perform a miracle.
Cry.
Learn the drums
Write a novel
Work for the police force
Discover a planet
Find God

..................

How do you explain freedom to someone who doesn’t know he has been caged?

Nymph says:
-Tell me something

H@De$--She'll make you live a crazy life but she'll take away your pain. Like a bullet to your brain says:
-?

Nymph says:
-Is this all there is?

H@De$--She'll make you live a crazy life but she'll take away your pain. Like a bullet to your brain says:
-For now..

Nymph says:
-What happened to watching the sunset and Paris in the springtime and snow in the Himalayas and Chinese men with yum food and that pink bubblegum that never loses its flavour?

H@De$--She'll make you live a crazy life but she'll take away your pain. Like a bullet to your brain says:
-Happens to the lucky ones
H@De$--She'll make you live a crazy life but she'll take away your pain. Like a bullet to your brain says:
-We're stuck with having to grow up first

You've got your passion, you've got your pride
but don't you know that only fools are satisfied?
Dream on, but don't imagine they'll all come true

I want out.
I want the key to my cage.

Loop

“I hate you”, she screamed, smashed records encircling her feet like bejeweled beetles.

Her mother watched her, light brown eyes flashing into light brown eyes, hatred echoing love.

Her mirrored skirt caught the light as she stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Her mother heard the door bang, felt the windows tremble and watched her daughter depart with hatred in her eyes.

She sat down on the wooden table, put her head in her hands, and wept.

If only…

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I hate you”, she screamed, CD’s flung into the pretty disarray of clothes and make up and jewelry.

Her mother watched her, light brown eyes flashing into light brown eyes, hatred echoing love.

Her computer blinked. Her ripped jeans deflected light as she stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Her mother heard the door bang, felt the windows tremble and watched her daughter depart with hatred in her eyes.

She sat down on the glass table, put her head in her hands, and wept.

If only…


"I hope you have a daughter just like you".

It's a curse.

Muse

“Is this fat?” she questioned anxiously, pinching at her beautiful, smooth abdomen.

"No you retard, It's called 'skin'".



Welcome to my life.

That time of the night

It's 3:45.
In the morning.
And I can't help but feel dead.

Heavy.

Listless.

Useless.

Living dead.

And the only things that light up the dark are my eyes and my purple nailpolish that glistens like dancing blood on the keyboard.

I'm scared of the dark.
Not much of a confession, but one that makes me vulnerable to you.
Lock me up in a shadowy room and I will confess to you the whereabouts of the secret weapon, take my clothes off, beg for mercy, stand on my head, salsa, anything--everything.
My imagination would kill me, megalomania-ing everything from the uneven rasp of my own breathing to the sininster silence.

Think for yourself, they tell you-
It's a curse.

It's quiet tonight.
There's a certain stillness which Bombay,' The City that Never Sleeps' boasts of being deficient in.
Funny.
Eerie.

I don't like it.

It's also that time of the night when you feel alone.
When you need someone to call just to check if you're alive,
Just to make sure you haven't cried yourself to sleep.

My phone screen doesn't talk back.
It hates me.
Blank.

For a middle child with Doctor parents and siblings who compete over who is diagnosed with more psychological disorders, I can safely admit to verging on insanity.

Confessions of a Dangerous Mind

I Hate :-
-Awkward silences
-Girls with a size zero frame and big empty heads
-Kissing back
-Math
-Too much sun
-All those gay Hindi serials that start with 'K'
-Being vulnerable
-Guilt
-Waiting
-Needing someone
-Conformists
-Promises
-Crying
-Red hair that fades
-People who pretend to be 'holier-than-thou' and then slyly stab you in the back
-Boys
-Girls who Need boys
-Star Wars
-Cowboy movies
-Loneliness
-Saying bye
-Falling
-Pain
-Feeling
-Not feeling
-People who think they can tell me what to do
-People who don't know what they want to do
-Pompous asses
-Cockroaches
-Insecurity
-Losing control
-Smiling till your face hurts
-War
-Raised voices
-Anything frilly or floral
-Death

It's ironic how the things we hate are those that remind us of ourself.
And that, my friends, is closure ~~

That's all folks.

Dawn.
Anewdaybegins,abrightertomorrow

A circle of Lies.
*Rolls eyes heavenwards awaiting the parting of skies, the Hand of God and Divine Intervention*

Nothing.
*sighs*

You disappoint me.

*Fade

Last night I missed you.

After months of locking you up in the corner of my mind it’s funny how our senses cheat us dragging us back to square one,
How the musty blend of Lavender and wood shavings and Armani and 'boy'  can make you want to puke your guts out.

I found that sweatshirt you had left behind, the one with the Lakers emblazoned on it in faded gold, the one I wore when we walked through the rain and you kissed me, the one that smells of you---but then again, it smells of me too.

It’s seen a lot, this sweatshirt.

It’s lived through Indian summers shooting hoops, tints of ice cream, stolen moments of promiscuity, make-a-move movies in the dark, long winter nights, late whispered phone calls, crying girlfriends, drunken moments, plastic promises, loneliness, shattered dreams, hope, fights, hugs where you say ‘forever’ and believe it, love lost...

And then her.

Out with the old, in with the new na na na na naa naaaa
Do your stupid dance, shoot your hoops, flash your abs
No one's watching.
I know I'M not.

Liar liar

I sat there holding it to me and I let the tears melt into the fabric till all that was left was a small dark stain.

It could have been blood, it could have been water.

But then I laughed.

Cause she’s missing out on one damn good sweatshirt!

Bloodlust

He was beautiful.

Even through the mist he stood out, his shadow opaque against the silver slivers of sky.

She couldn’t see his face, didn’t want to. It might ruin the picture she had painted in her head.

She hated it.

Hated it when they turned out to be less than perfect, when they waited and dithered and groveled and whined and shattered her fantasies with the fact that there was ‘emotion’ and ‘feeling’ and ‘oh-we-can-think-for-ourselves’ to the body that she wanted.

Couldn’t they just shut up and leave her to it?

To them?

Masks seem so much more attractive these days.

The moonlight glinted on his face as he held her close. She could feel the muscles tense in his shoulders, big strong hands holding her alive.

Perfection had never smothered her so close.

She savored it preferring to shelve its price tag, breathing him in.

He was flawless, like in her dreams.

Her only fear was waking up to a cold empty bed with nothing to stare at but her face in the dark.

He bent low making her skin dance and her eyes darken with desire.

She could see his teeth, sharp ivory daggers glinting in his mouth,

Pleasure laced with pain,

Perfect.

So close…

Lower

Lower still

Teeth

Bite

Suck

Blood

Teeth laced with blood,

Big strong hands holding her dead.

He was beautiful.

Vampires can never resist a damsel in distress.

Stars in her eyes

Had it worked?
She could see the stars beneath her eyelids. Her head hurt. She opened her eyes, slowly. White, all white.
“Hospital,” she gasped comprehendingly.
Nurses bustled around, a buzz of activity enveloping their starch uniforms.
She could smell disinfect and that sullied tang one tends to associate with old people and infants.
And crying?
She gazed out of the corner of her eye only to find her mother sobbing over her quietly.
Suddenly she could hear a commotion, men’s voices raised against the startled efficiency of the doctors.

Shut eyes. Summon those stars.

She began to remember…
It all started and ended with HIM.
They’d met at the local Dandiya Ras and the minute she laid eyes on him, she knew.
“It’s him,” she pointed out excitedly to her friends, “he’s The One.”
She was enamored by his tall lean body, chocolate skin and slow easy smile.
He, in turn, was soon infatuated but her inky black hair, hazel eyes and lust for life.
They danced together the entire night, fragments of every teenagers’ perfect dream, their bodies entwining and moving away to the frenzied fast paced beat of the sticks.
“Juhi,” she sighed when he asked her her name.
“Rang,” he gifted back, his face lighting up.
Her voice whispered his name over and over in her head, like a mantra, long after he was gone.
They met again the next day, he made sure of it.
It took them a few hours to discover the fools that love and life, in all its cruelty had made of them.
She was a Chauhan. He was a Mehta. Their fate was sealed.
They shared family history, belonging to clans that had warred and scarred each other for generations, each vying for the permanent extinction of the other.
No one remembered what had spurred it, they no longer cared. It had become ‘habit’.

But love? Love conquers all.

They faced a year of secret trysts, stolen kisses, moments engraved in the song on their skin that sang to their families that this all that mattered.
They whispered endearments, young confident passion caught in their throats, the promise of a brighter future, the oath of a ‘forever’.
They planned their family together, Jivan meaning ‘life’ for a boy and Jiah meaning ‘live’ for a girl..
And then it began.

It was the stock market that sparked it.
The Chauhans started to gain. All the time. On and on and on. Like Lady Luck had deigned to reside with them. There was no stopping the Chauhans. Their company became famous world-wide, they began to win accolades for their work in various fields, Juhi was promoted to ‘Daddy’s little Princess’…
And the Mehtas? Their favorite opponents? They began to sink. Lower and lower, faster and faster, sink into oblivion.

All this just around the time Rang started working with Daddy.

Did that make for a happy Rang?

No, it did not.

It was small things in the beginning. The name calling, the constant “You pay for it, you ugly bitch! Daddy’s little girl has come into some money, hasn’t she now? Does Daddy know what his princess is upto?”
It was like he’d forgotten her name. She was no longer his sole reason for living, his baby girl, the icing to his cake, his One, His.
Then the pinching started, it was followed by the hair pulling, the cigarette burns and his steady decline into alcohol.
She loved him.
So she let him.
She let him vent his frustration leaving her scarred and emotionally turbulent. Her self esteem plunged, her skin thickened, her eyes lost their shine.
Her penance for being a Chauhan.

He lived in his own flat now. A small one bedroom apartment. Squalid, rancid, lonely.
But she came. Everyday.
And then the violence started. He used to slap her every now and then but soon it became normal almost natural. She would be left to cover up her black eye with a gauzy dupatta, slashings of mascara, concealer, war-paint.
She would be kicked, punched, tortured, slammed against a wall and forced to her feet each and every time.
But always, each and every time, he apologized, disguising her bruises with soft butterfly kisses and contrite “sorry baby, you know I love you”’s.
And he did, in his ‘own way’.

It was the chair on her stomach that did it.
She’d kept her 9 week pregnancy a secret from him, waiting for the ‘right time’ with that foolish faith that only the very young have. She too wished for her Happy Ending, glimpsing the boy she fell in love with in the man before her and wishing that time would race back, with her whole heart and soul.
But it didn’t. And when she suffered a miscarriage, he broke her heart and her soul.
It was only then that she realized that in keeping him alive, she was slowly killing herself.
She decided to end it, for both of them, wrench them out of their misery.
One of them would have to go.

She chose a Friday. Friday the 13th. The day they’d met.

She kept everything ready. The bottle of Tylenol, sleeping pills, a note.

She told everyone she was sick, locked the door, made her bed.

She entered her pretty pink bathroom, had a long bath, washed her hair, put on her favorite outfit,

It was time.

Dear Rang,
My heart and soul,
I love you.
But I can’t take it anymore.
Jivan is dead. I wish to join him.
Love,
Juhi.

She slipped the circular white tablets into her mouth, closed her eyes.
The stars had come, her stars.
Had it worked?
She could see the stars beneath her eyelids. Her head hurt. She opened her eyes, slowly. White, all white.
“Hospital,” she gasped comprehendingly.
Nurses bustled around, a buzz of activity enveloping their starch uniforms.
She could smell disinfect and that sullied tang one tends to associate with old people and infants.
And crying?
She gazed out of the corner of her eye only to find her mother sobbing over her quietly.
Suddenly she could hear a commotion, men’s voices raised against the startled efficiency of the doctors.
A Mehta rushed into her room, she vaguely recognized him as Rangs older brother.
He was crying and screaming.
“He’s dead! Juhi! HE’S DEAD!”
He rushed to her side and attempted to shake her to life but was soon pulled off by security guards and escorted outside. She could still hear his wail of loss, the continuous “HE”S DEAD” as if to convince himself that his bright, handsome, young brother was dead. There were more of them outside.
Her mother was reading a slip of paper vacantly, in shock.

Dear Juhi,
I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Forgive me.
My baby Jivan, what have I done to you?
I love you more than the stars themselves.
I’m on my way.
Love,
Rang.

“Rang! You have robbed them of their color,” sighed Juhi’s mother, “Why beti, why?”

Juhi smiled sadly to herself.

Guilt does wonderful things to a person.

One of them had to go.

In a pretty pink bathroom, a bottle of Tylenol lay unopened.