Mini Tale #2

At night I’m up
To conjure up answers for twenty “whatsups”,
To attain amiability.
I fail miserably.
I fail with each sunrise.

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Coffee Mark.

Just the other day

A coffee circle on the white wood
Took the shape of your face.

I swear I saw your lines and smiles;
I had stared long enough.
I didn’t wipe it off,
Fearful it won’t form again.

Next morning Ma wasn’t pleased
To see me cry over her wiping off,
Of a brownish blotch
Of the coffee mark.

Silly what people do
To behold someone again.
Silly I laughed at this silliness once
But now I was
One of them.

My mind metaphorically compares you to
Nothing but watery stain.
It’s funny how even cleaning that off
Could cause someone so much pain.

OCD…

“Who put my honour between my legs?
I’m sure as hell I didn’t.
You know my OCD quite well
And I expect you not to fiddle.
I assigned it in my hard skulled head
Or fiery heart within.
But never did I place such a valuable item
In my flimsy sheet of hymen.
He would only bruise it if you put it there;
Left to me, he just couldn’t.
No I won’t explore the pits of shame
Because you displaced what you shouldn’t.”

-I heard her shout to people lamenting over her loss of honour after being raped.

Excerpts from My Letters to You.

Letter No. 3652

2305 hours

Hey you,

Remember Van Gogh?
One who swallowed yellow paint?
To get happiness inside of him?
“Ridiculous!”
I remember you exclaim with mirth.
Doesn’t seem so ridiculous now
As I gaze at a picture of my heart.
Doctor says it’s grey,
Made of ash,
Slowly crumbling and dismantling under the storm of each
Deep breath I take
To keep the pain from spilling out.
And I stare at the squeezed tubes of water paints,
Yearning to mix yellow with my grey,
Red with my grey,
Violet with my grey.

00:00 hour

The moon is high up
And yet again,
So am I.
Its desolate when sleep refuses to assist you most nights
And when it does,
I sleep like a seal at sea
With one eye open,
Dreaming to rest my head on the land.
“New environment does that,” I read somewhere.
Since you,
Every night is a novel environment.
With the same curtains and the same bed
But a very new
Set of anguish
With each sun down.

0012 hours

I recall your touch.
I recall transforming into a cigarette
That you put to your lips
And its body
Burned.
Turned into smoke rings that swirled in the thick monsoon air
To finally lose its form and disappear.
I transcended my corporeal self
Into a spectrum of timelessness-
Of time past, time present and time impending.
But now,
I’m an ashtray.
I put out cigarettes with my thumb
And let others put them out on my chest
Neck,
Collarbone
To replace all your gnawing marks.
And hope what my mother says is true-
“Fire purifies darling,
It gives solace to the dead too.”

0121 hours

I tried to be with Mr N.
And H and A and H again.
But I tried to turn them into you.
Furious and frantic when N’s laugh didn’t sound like yours,
When H’s eyes were a shade darker than yours,
Not my colour I always thought.
And A- brushed the hair off my face
Using two fingers instead of one.
Unlike you.
I took all the love I could from them
And gave not a speck in return.
See, I learned your ways at last.
And slowly but surely I was that girl,
On whom young lads
Practiced unhooking bras.
Practiced to get it right when they do it with their love.
And slowly but surely I was that girl,
Who asked for bruises, cuts, and scars
To get orgasms
Or to feel something at all.
Mixing red to my grey at last.

01:30

Tiny truths can reframe your reality,
They can reframe your existence.
The earth was flat once
And I was happy.
Then someone bent it
Made it round
And I got lost.
In search of the flat one.
Now thirty-two and married
My spouse sleeps next to the crumpled sheet
Where I should have been.
Or pretends to sleep
While I hit the pen on old yellow pages
And strike a gashing cut on his heart.
All my words become his gaping wounds,
Fresh ones each night while I cheat on him
With a paper and pen.
And he tells our son he knows exactly why
Swords are blunt
But pens are vile.
Very vile.

0303 hours

He makes love to me while my eyes are open,
Forming your shapes on the rusty ceiling.
Your rounded nose and your big brown eyes.
The bump on your neck and your lips on mine.
His touch is tender
But I yearn for your scratch.
Masochistic they label,
I rename it love.
Sadistic they call me,
I rephrase it to “in love”.
Hypersensitive. Melancholic. Insomniac.
They have so many tags.
But I break them down
one by one
And call them all
Your love your love.
I was taught to glamorize it all
By words on flowery novels
And pretty people
moving in the television box.

0315 hours

“Love is a rose
Every petal an illusion
Every thorn a reality.”
Baudelaire I think.
So all the thorns
Struck in me by you
Are now perceived as affection,
Your love.
And the oozing crimson fluid from the pricks,
The colour of that rose.
“Romanticize, Romanticize
Romanticize your pain”
Is the chant that always made me stay.
So when you abandoned me at last
I loved you deeper
With the echoes of delusional facts from films
Running through my head
At every instance:
“You only hurt the one you truly love.”
“Love is another word for pain”
“Pain is beautiful, it keeps you sane.”
0400 hours

And here I am
Ten years ahead.
Refusing to let go
Glorifying pain
In melancholic romantic poetry
Yet again.
But mocked conveniently
By the hypocrite world,
As Insane, depressed
And a twisted sort of girl.

Love, me.