chaiNboli

 I am a lier a lover of lies. You see, every day, am cruel enough  to ignore you, same as my split ends. I wear a smile and look after you, like you never exist. I act like I can't hear your voice asking me why I left you. But  every night, I crawl into  my opium dens,  my eyes heavy with unshed tears. I live with demons  feeding me regret, my taste buds  salty of tears. My tongue numb with an apology , a lump on my throat to utter " I love you". I am a frog in a jar_ eyes wide and  canned movements. My heart  an archaeologic piece, my brain where worms crawl.  Will I ever forget you? Will I move on? I count for  how many days this pain has to say: and realize, until the last breath.. You see sometimes a lover and a lier are same, the very same...

 Where do squirrels live? The chocolate furred ones,  the soft ones, the naughty ones? Where do squirrels live? The chirpy ones, with eyes of innocence, climbing every tree _ fun you say? Where do squirrels live? The ones who play with nuts _ the nuts that look  hard from outside, yet  breaks easily with a touch? Where do squirrels live? The ones that hide  the nut somewhere, but then forgets all about it's existence? And the nut,  in the mud, with its small cracks, bearing every scratch  of the "cute" squirrel, yet waiting, unaware of the oblivion. Where do squirrels live? I think, in my head, in my heart,  in every piece of my memory... Where do squirrels live? In your body darling, in every cell of you, every word of you, every deed of you..  you- the cruel squirrel, but the sweet squirrel..

Every time you say "we are done" I find myself trapped  in the cobwebs of misery, helpless and alone. My crimson sky split open,  I mumble "sorry", a tamed pet of you. I repent for the sins I haven't done, a clown's smile I offer. I find our old love letters in a drainage, black, rotten and stinking. Believe me or not am  not afraid of  ghosts and lizards, but of your 'love'. Your love resembles  Dracula's castle, dangerous yet magical mysterious yet compelling The doors of iron and cold red floors. Uncertain promises,  the cupid turns evil his arrow into spear enough to kill me once. The butterflies in the  stomach into hungry beasts, drinking the last drop  of my blood and savouring my tears. I am afraid of your love, the forbidden fruit, and am afraid of you, but no more...

"Good bye", you say, not "see you again" and no surprise  tingles my stomach, neither do butterflies.  You are a poem  full of lies , one I know by heart.  A fine art, strong enough to make me insane. I know  am not the  first woman you loved, and neither will be the last one. For you I was a  weird motel, stinking of  coffee and cigarettes, not a home  to stay forever. I was a rotten fruit,  meant to be sniffed  for a moment or two, before throwing it away, and not a green apple to relish upon. I was nothing,  but a misfit, to everything you have, to everything you adore. And  then there was me, an idiot, a refugee who seeked a shelter in you, a lone wild flower in search of a spring rain. But how can I claim that was  and that is  not mine? With a heart broken  than the screen of my phone, I hope to run to you, to the safety of your arms, my head on your chest, drowning myself _ my every word, every smile,...

Love me for  four hundred summer days Hold me close for  five hundred winter nights Kiss me in an autumn night and cry with me for three hundred summer days  But don't promise to mend me, to understand each broken piece  Don't adore me and  make myself risk again, again. ... I have lost myself many times into despair, crushing a love song between my teeth. "No more, no more" my heart whispers , afraid to die, again. Your brown eyes wander through the  cracks of my body and mires of my heart. I hide a letter in  broken grammar there, in the fifth chamber of my heart.. Don't read my words  Don't take it away, for that keeps me sane.. "Stay" we wish to say eachother, yet we are not meant to...  You smile and leave, clutching a strand of my hair in your hands... I watch, numb and dump, a lump in my throat.. You won't come back, I know,   we know... I touch my fingers, your odour in their tips.. and promise myself to carry you there, in ...

 My mother thinks  that she knows  everything about me, that she knows every single detail of  my infamous life. Because afterall  I am  the flesh of her flesh and the blood of her blood. But there are  certain pains  the umbilical cord can't feel some smiles  the breast milk can't taste and anger,  growing  bigger than a baby bump. My mother doesn't know the insomniac daughter, bleeding silently in the middle of the night, her pillows drenched  over the man she loved. My mother doesn't know the heart that stopped  at the very moment her favorite books were burnt. My mother doesn't know the girl who called  herself  'useless' when she overheard her mother  disappointed over "only 87 percentage" . My mother doesn't know the desperate attempts of  her child to kill herself not once but thrice, but that she was failure, in that too.. My mother doesn't know the dark scream her silent daughter hides, in the ...

Stop telling me how I should feel,  whom to love, whom to hate. Stop telling me which my favorite colour is. Stop telling me   how to sit, how to talk, how to stand,  how to sleep. Stop telling me what to read, how to read what to speak, what to listen, what to hear and what to watch. Stop telling me that vanilla is my favorite flavor, that I don't like pizza, and  that I hate him! Stop telling me I look pretty or ugly. Stop telling me  how to smile, when to cry, and when to laugh. Stop telling me the meaning of my silences, the absurdity of my words, the meaninglessness of my life . Stop telling me what to write, how to write and when to write. Stop telling me  the song I should sing, the way I should wlk and the person I should love. Stop telling me the dress I should wear the band I should listen, the man I should kiss. Stop telling me what I was  what I am and what I should be. Stop telling me, stop yelling at me, stop remembering me, and forg...