thingamabob

I think of the wounds

Next to my pace-maker

That bit off parts of

Your finger-prints,

You said they’d close

Up, but they turned

Out to have dents

And squeaky canines.

My mouth quivers at night

I think of the inclination

Of your words

Fitting like a glove

On my collar bones

Think of how cheesy

And buttery it feels

My abdomen quivers at night

I think of how

My ceramic limbs

Cracked, and how

You got pushed

Away, and how my

Insides scream out

For your presence

My mentality quivers at night

I think of ghosts floating

In a pond

How I need 

To bleed with them

How I need to

Puncture my nest

Of bones

How I need to

Stone my thinking

To its last breath

My emotions quiver at night.

I watch the lumps of sugar deceiving me. They appear promising and sweet. They make me imagine being whisked till my life turned into a beautifully crafted cake. But icing is too sugary. It makes my stomach churn. The individual sugar crystals have sharp ends, and they don’t provide bandage either. I hurry right away. Dump the sugar lumps in the river beside me. And I try resting on the bank but it’s too prickly, and the grass will probably be killed because of me. I want to cross to the other side. I see a bridge with broken down wooden sheets. The one that would collapse as you take one step. But I tried anyway. Right now, I’m drowning. It’s not because I can’t swim. It’s because the river is too sugary, seeping in my nostrils, filling my airways.

Filing For Seperation

Feeling the dam of,
Fixed plans distorting,
The 18 year old branch,
Is cracking, I suppose,
Wash out that state of,
Being left there ‘hanging’,
This, is like; anatomy,
Slicing through the,
Cake of my body,
Exactly into two.
Plenty of fishes in the,
Sea you say? Try to,
Scream and dance with that,
Have you ever found two other,
Fishes called mommy and daddy?
Your photo, is still here, young,
And fresh, gnawing on my tendons,
I shall not let this slip,
Like a beautiful butterfly.
If we have crashed, before this,
These stanzas would’ve been read,
Off the slices of my brain,
When will you let love, pass,
Through these weak doors,
Oh, oh, oh,
It never prevails.

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.

Love her to death…

Love her, she can entrance you when I can not keep you for seconds.
Love her, you can float together in endless skies.
Love her, you are as free as long-lost birds.
Love her, queer things are sometimes lovely.
Love her, but brilliant things are always frenzy.
Love her, jealousy cuts me open, yet the sight of crimson keeps me moving.
Love her, she captivates you, while I stand there secretely longing.
Love her, she would not ask you to love someone else.
Love her, I am willing to go on living with pretence.
Love her, for I am always the one loved less.
Love her, I used to shield you from the rain and now it’s gone.
Love her, I am used to the state of being forlorn.
Love her, she’s here right now, you wouldn’t want to miss the train.
Love her, love her, love her, just don’t do it in front of me.

Dear Grandma,

I have always loved you, have you known that? Yes, we were quite apart but they say distance never matters. I loved your atmosphere, your home, your significant presence. I have never known that, but I wish you did. I yearned for the summer days, just to get a glimpse of life over there, where Father was brought up. I was a child, I still am, but then, I was a child who did not know that family members can completely despise you. I was unaware, and you were the only goodness over there. You got me felt-tips pens, they delighted me, you knew I loved to draw. I still have them Grandma, I still do, even though they don’t work anymore. I liked your room, so cool, where you sat and calmly watched the television or prayed. I sat next to you, with legs that didn’t touch the ground, and was unconciously feeling your warmth. You gave us some sweets, I never ate them, but your smile is still there, so fervent, so dear. I did not have enough of you Grandma, I am still childish, believe me. I thought it was fine, I thought I did not like it over there. I still have the sound of the athan embedded in my memory, so loud and echoing, so sentimental. You slowly drifted away, the glorious days were diminishing. Miles away, I heard Father call you, it left me sadder than ever. You were gradually leaving us, I thought it was fine, but no, it never was. I am not asking you to come back, Grandma, for you deserve much more. Your voice is still there, faint, but still there. I shed a drop of bitterness when passing by a place which used to be the holiday routine. It does not matter now, it does not, it has been closed down. Why shall I step into a place full of memories, when the only goodness in it was you?

null

We were walking down the path, kicking the pebbles playfully, with tufts of hair occassionally obscuring our eye sight. It was a sunny-windy day, an unusual weather I was fond of; warm yet cool.
“So, what did you guys do this weekend?”, Adam enquired.
“Oh nothing,” replied Emily, “except for go to that Science Musuem.” She shrugged off. She shrugged off.
“That’s so fascinating.” I could sense he was making an effort in hiding his perplexed state.
“I didn’t even do that,” I seemed to be interrupting something, but I went on, “I just stayed at home, does home-made pedicure count?”, that’s what I always did, ask questions in order to mingle in a conversation, otherwise my words are just as insignificant as my presence altogether.
“I read this book,” Adam gleamed, inched closer to Emily sideways, and made an I-know-you’ll-like-this gesture, “it has a detailed section about symbiotic behaviours.”
“Cool.” I said, while Emily nodded casually.
My thoughts then decided to wander off, I watched Adam continue chatting as if in mute, and also noticed his benign gaze at Emily. The agitating thing was Emily acted as if she didn’t care. I sometimes wonder how oblivious people get when it comes to obvious situations as these. I could actually walk out of the path, no, grow some wings and fly around and they wouldn’t notice a thing. It even reached to the point that Adam often started off with a topic I don’t even know about, Physics being a major example, and I would just tag along with them like a complete idiot. We were supposed to be friends, the three of us, but things were heading the wrong way. To make things worse, Adam was, as a matter of fact, my all time best buddy, but he was being recklessly snatched away. Emily was my friend and all, but that was too brutal for me to let it slide, not that it was her fault, technically speaking. I despised the idea of Adam and Emily being an item, I was hopeless, I would ptactically dive in a pool of petrol just to set things in their right place…

Moving Out, Moving On

That was my home. That was where I felt I belonged. I couldn’t do anything about it though, I did, but it was fruitless. My mother was a pretty optimistic woman, so it was quite natural to observe her, with eyes filled with cheerfulness, wandering around this house dreamily. My older sister was a realist, or simply didn’t care; I could hardly tell, for she unpacked her belongings in an every-day manner. I will always recollect the last moments in my real home, so somber, so vacuous, with silence intolerable, excluding the occasional birds chirping in the dear neighbourhood. My father was quite like me, expressionless, he just dropped us to our supposed-to-be new house and left somewhere. I had no choice but to dare to step into my dissimilar room. I took out my turtle, my timid friend, I could easily tell that he’d rather be in my actual room too, for this one was so distateful, with brand new, untouched furnishing. When Turtle’s head finally emerged from his shell, he witnessed what I also did; my basketball roll across the wooden floor. I massaged it with my thumb and read what was written on it: “I’ll miss you Mandy, it will never be the same without you, but memories last forever, don’t they? Love, Tyler”. All I was capable to do then was roll in a corner and cry.

Bottling Up

Sometimes, I compare myself with a bottle. People and situations keep on filling it up with pebbles until there’s no more room. The bottle cracks, but never completely, so just a couple of pebbles pop out. After plastering the crack, people and situations continue filling up the bottle with more pebbles.

story written by me (nothing personal ;) )

I woke up at nine nine, as usual, to the soft sound of the A.C. I realized then that my head-phones were still on and remembered that I have been listening to songs on shuffle all night or, I’d rather say, all dawn. I rubbed off the sleep from my eyes and grabbed the phone, but there was nothing new, not that I expected anything new. I had this recurring dream again where he gets closer to me to a point that I could feel his breath on my bare arm. He was about to whisper something in my ear but I instantly woke up, like every time. My older brother peeped into my bed room door then realized that I was awake. I just sat there on the bed and stared at him. 

“Come on, Jen, rise and shine!” he said in a granny imitation voice. I grinned and slid open the blinds. Now that I was awake I thought “God, I have lots of stuff to do” I had to go visit some friends, attend our vital business meeting, and run errands for my client. My social life was always busy, but my mind was constantly in one mood- the desire to know what he was going to say.