Cupcakes taste like Violence

We're always behind this metal and glass. I think we miss that touch so much, that we crash into each other, just so we can feel something.

- Crash

Dear Pria,
There used to be a boy. And then there was another one. And there were a few in between. And I know these weren't the details you asked for, but I'd rather not get into them, because they're dirty. Spit, spit, spit, swallow. Remember the Bangle Theory? I'm cut glass-ed out bro. So many circles, so tangled up, I can't even spell emotion. It's like the wall, right? Higher, stronger, harder, faster, all that jazz. And the higher you build it, the smaller you get, until you don't see yourself as anything anymore and nobody else does either. So you scream for attention but the wall doesn’t give and before you know it you’re sprinting outside just so you can crash into the nearest person – someone provocative and talkative, shallow and misguided – touch, tease, taste, throw up.

I met him. I hid behind a pillar, curled like a baby seal and made myself almost invisible but he was drawn to me, like a moth to a flame, bra, like a moth to a flame. I know what you would’ve said “Face it. You need to do it. Stop feeling sorry for yourself.” But I wasn’t sure how if a person still had the same hands and the same hair and said your name in the same way, you could feel so different. Maybe we dressed the distance in a fashion we loved, maybe I did. Don’tsayitdon’tsayitdon’tsayit
See if I were you I might’ve liked it, loved it even, lived with the love. But I’m me and if you don’t keep me on edge, you’re over it. You said it first. You told me I get bored easily, I just didn’t expect it to happen with people. The hurt wasn’t worth the wait.

If I let myself feel I’d be crying through breakfast and the cab ride to college and lectures I sleep in and gokul and sunlight and the smoke dude and my girlfriends’ pretty faces and home and on my striped sheets and Shanti might make me chicken soup and Ashu and Gayu might give me a hug or a rainbow or biryani from Olympia but I’ll live with not knowing. I’m really uphappy. I’ve never felt this unhappy. Pushed up against a wall doesn’t cut it either. I wish I could purge myself off my past, walk pure. Past, right? So dramatic. But the countdown isn’t counting down and the faces get less make out worthy in the light.

This one was strange. The other one was just plain stupid. I can get over plain stupid, but strange makes me feel strange and I like the inexplicable. Then again, give me -39 seconds and his flaws blind my eyes. Make it stop. I don’t like this game. I don’t know what the prize is and all I’m losing is me.

New game?
Never fuck, never fuck, better than a… it says ‘never fuck’ for a fucking reason.
Sick.

Esh

I can’t focus. All it takes is your face in mine and I’m twirling hair and smiling and hating you. I don’t even like you. But I love that you look like me. You bleed restlessness and I’m drawn to you so I forget all the things I should be doing and I let you do me. It’s complicated. It always is. But you say when has fun ever been complicated. We’re just having fun, right? Fun with our clothes off. You look better with your clothes off. And your mouth shut. And sometimes, I fight not to kiss you like I mean it. But then you make it easy. Jedi five, Taz.

Then there’s you. I never meant to, I promise. I’ve been there. It’s an ugly place where you see me everytime you’re in S’s room, put on a shirt, brush your teeth, cross the road, wake up, breathe. Your boulevard is a living breathing memory that tastes like me. We’ve lived the fairytale, but trust me, I’m not there. I’m here. I always was. We just acted like it was perfect. You fabricated us and so did I, we were good together because we thought we were. See, that’s the catch. You can fool yourself into believing in perfection. I’m crashing. Can’t do it. This should be nicer and talk about how seamless we were and how we wove in and out of each other but come on, scars are so much more mesmerizing. I’m so sorry. My face isn’t pretty enough to stain your memory. You’ll get over it. You’re strong and stubborn. You might even hate me. The tragedy is, I might let you.

Honestly, I just wanted to be 19. You know, catch a movie, lock lips, feign love, get dinner, run in your hoodie on marine drive. But instead I got all or nothing. I'm your beauty, he's my beast. Oh slap.

I wish I was Princess Leia.
I'd get my own spaceship and ride off into the galaxy.
And sometimes i'd make out with hot men with lightsabers.
Because I'd be cool like that.