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.