I think it is better to live with distress, than to live with absence of beautiful fragments called words, as their existence relies on distress. I imagine living in a peachy medium, where anything you spill is not cliché. With one wink you inhale the purple powder, miniscule droplets, dissolving the bronchioles together, letting you exhale an artistic texture, to be stuck on your wall. I imagine using my red bricks of courage, and somehow, rip off your meniscus, bathing my fingers in the plasma you are. You can sprinkle anything, above anything, smudging soot beneath your eyelids, and your contracting iris would be penetrated. As I unfold the lines that cross over each other, and then I realize that what I just typed does not intertwine with the images that hug my thoughts.

If you ever let me stay,
In the corner of your smile,
Somber thoughts might wear off,
I’ve been considering this for a while,
Thinking of what’s been more than enough,
I’ve lost my mind somewhere there,
I think it also accomodates me.
So simple, yet complex,
Is the corner of your smile,
It’s so vast that we can leap,
To the hola hoop of Uranus,
And do some classy waltz,
It’s so minute that we must duck,
Under a bright lamp post,
Our laughter will echo till midnight.
Let me feel the breeze you inhale,
Let me be dampened with your tears,
Let me record your voice that speaks,
Let me tie up that loose string,
Of the corner of your smile.

Vision becomes focused and the lines on my face are seen. I stare at this clearer person, still wondering who that person is, what is it precisely that she suffers from, how can she stitch back everything without further scrapping off her bits that remain. I speak to myself with a husky voice because it sounds more reinforcing, because reaching out for a third hand is like playing jenga with pencils of various lengths. I’ve been scrolling through virtual pages, instead of flipping through real ones, and I can almost touch myself sitting in that corner, with everything flowing except myself, motionless.

She is like a rose. She is so vivid and her pigment is so fresh, making her prominent among the whole bouquet. You pick her, but of course, why ever would you make another choice? She is full of thorns, but you don’t mind, you adore the feeling derived when your fingers are cut, because of her. Drops of blood, dripping down, no regrets. You hold her out before your eyes and oh, what a sight. You spin her around, and you just can’t get enough of all her angles, and every new spin introduces you to a newer angle which enthralls you even more. You rest her on your cheeks, she feels so cool on your skin, and ever so soft. You’re torn between looking at her and feeling her touch, and river of emotions. She has got a hold of the remote control, oh yes, that rose, and you are so devoted you pay everything you have to have her. Time is ticking, and she begins to wilt. Dried up with colour darkening, not as appealing, but you are still hypnotized, she would never let go of the remote control. I was the dandellion you blew away, when you still had naïve dreams, and somehow I’m also the napkin she hurled, that you discarded when reddened with your cheery blood. Those days, I suppose are long forgotten.

If I were the daughter of a carpenter, perhaps reading a book would’ve been more entrancing. Things always taste relishingly good when worked hard for, they say. Maybe I’d make the best of choices because my budget is limited. Maybe I’d make my own shelf and my books would be proud. I would be more inspired and teaching myself things would be more often.
“Father, please,” I would say, “help me build a tree house.”
Maybe I’d grow up to value time as required, maybe birds that would have been trapped among the branches appreciate my feeble hands, more than humans ever will. My elbows would be cut and bruised more intensly than how narrow my chest feels now. Instead of swaying my fingers fruitlessly when in darkness, I’d sway my whole body in the moonlight. I thank God for whatever He provides. But maybe I would almost die because of a falling roof, instead of almost dying because of a starving soul.

I would be there, sitting on a petit chair, stitched with particular care and skill. My dark tufts, waves and curls of hair would be finally set free. They would move along the rhythm, unable to conceal their joy, my spirit like a maestro directing their movements. Descending across the flowery staircase, my figure would be covered with delicate white. Our fingers shall intertwine, and I shall be forever yours. Reach for my chin, dearest, and lift it gently; instead of batting my sooty lashes, my eyes would rest on yours. Let us cherish the love, and flying swans would come, dropping down angels looking alike, laughing with delight, bringing veritable happiness within us. Forget not to awaken your body in the middle of the darkness to nourish your soul; I shall shake you daintily, and together we shall sprinkle drops of water, purifying us physically and spirtually. We shall creep softly and lay down thick carpets, kneeling down with all our hearts, asking God to bestow His blessings, asking Him to drain our sins. We shall stay up, and tremble with sweet fear, running our fingers on sacred words, reading them almost professionally. Let teardrops run down our cheeks when all else is fast asleep. We shall crawl back to slumber later, when all is done. I shall shake you daintily again, we must part now, dearest. Maybe we would meet again sooner or later, and maybe never again.

I was the girl who drank milk. They’d slap the bottle and stamp on it till it bursts. They’d think being short was the unaittanable quality. “They blame apples for being too red,” my father would say, not realizing that I was a green apple. Green apples are good, I’d convince myself in vain, but green apples are everywhere. I wanted to be a mauve apple. I wanted to be peeled and handed out for the rabbits. They would smile, not afraid of revealing their teeth. I did not want to be sliced though, but I was, and juice dripped down on the grass. The grass would drink it in greed, full knowingly it would never grow to make an apple again.