Fire vs Men 

She loved starting fires. Whether it was in the belly of lost men in pub at 2am or gentlemen in the park at 2pm. All she knew was of starting fires.

She was wilderness, an inhabitable Chappell. That played unheard choirs with symphonies that told stories of all those who once visited her. She left a trail of flame behind her every time she walked away from them. Her glow was a warmth those men couldn’t resist. Even though treading too close to her meant getting a burn or two but she loved starting fires and those men loved to be set ablaze. It was more or less a mutual consent. Except of course fire also means inevitable ashes. And it was mostly always her who was slowly being reduced to one. Her footsteps were an amalgam of her ashes; pieces of her that once were and spark; pieces that still held potential. You could say she was life and death both in one.

For those men, she was just a distraction from their old boring routines. Someone who made their stagnant hearts beat a little faster in the night and made them feel more than what their sorry lives made them feel in the morning. She resurrected them from mediocrities, made them feel alive in those moments in her embrace and company. She was never more than a woman who satiated their wildest fantasies and just that.

She too liked the way she made them feel. She was someone they would always remember, like a burn marred into their memory forever but never the one to spend the rest of their lives with. It was only fair, a fire like hers was never meant to be contained. A fire if kept too long would only incinerate and devour the one keeping her captive.

She was a flame meant to spread like wildfire; Velocious, devastating and resistant.
Like a tenacious unwavering inferno, that only knew of rage and annihilation.
Swallowing everything that came her way like smoke down the windpipe of an addict.

All she knew of was starting fires. And there is only so much fire those frightened men could take before they ran for the hills. Their coward faces hid under the mask of unproved bravery. She could only laugh at their stories. Those men….only used her as a lighter to ignite their fire, only to end up leaving her to melt other candles. That’s all they could do. Their cowardliness never allowed them to be anything more than that.

They were just scared gutless boys trapped under the skin of manlihood that asked of them nothing more than words and no action. But they carried the mark of bravery like they had earned it, with their puffed up chests pointing towards the sky dripping with smugness and arrogance. Their fragile egos tender and at-stake with everything said against their will. Their pride as easily bruised as their spineless existence- Condescending and conceited.

A mark of bravery they owned like a heirloom but never earned, not even close. So it was only fair when they ran the other way on the sight of fire which threatened their superiority. They were never the ones to fight in the battle field but the ones to flee from it at the first sign of danger and gunfire. Ducking their heads like nothing will ever hurt them if they didn’t look and kept walking. Those men only knew how to save themselves and they were good at it.

Nobody really knew the potential her fire contained. She might have burned a man or two but she scalded herself just the same. Her fire only flamed higher and higher until it reached the blue sky and made it red. Until the sky too caught her fire and rained flames.

(Daily post: ElementalPrickle)

To Be Loved Like A Poet Loves its Poem.

She will touch you with fingers so cold you will wonder why ice wasn’t named after her yet she will set your skin ablaze. She will look at you like art piece. Analyze every crease on your face when you laugh and every grimace when something displeases you.

She will look at you like a path that keeps unfolding and she’s treading blind. Oblivious of what’s to come but woefully expectant of what’s ahead. She will explore you. She will show you what’s its like to be loved as a poet loves its poem.
And believe me, she will love you like a poem.
She’s the type to turn you into poetry.

She will see into your eyes and imagine a thousand stars bursting; into dreams that are made up of all that you are, all that you were and all that you are suppose to be. She will consider you a galaxy with shooting stars and meteor showers.

You will tell her things and she will listen to you. And she will stare at you until you tell her how her gaze is so unnerving. But she’s only looking at you like words that are left unsaid because nobody has been courageous enough to write them down on paper yet. Because those are the words not everybody can imagine writing every day.

So she will love you like a poet but you will have to love her back like a poem; gently, kindly and courageously. For a broken heart might shoot ink into her veins but it will kill a part of her, that she will never be able to recover again.

People like her lose their pieces one by one until one day they find themselves empty. After all there is a reason, why poets die young.

(Daily post: Texture, Shimmer, Amble, )

Tell Me. 

How do you sleep with regrets tucked under your pillow?

With its heaviness holding your eyelids down not to sleep; but to punish with remorse.

How do you feel when affliction of your actions take hold of your throat one by one; choking you until you can’t breathe.

How do you feel, tell me how do you feel ? Can you sleep? Can you breathe? Do you have peace?

Do you feel your chest getting crushed under the weigh of it all? Your rib cage tightening, constricting your windpipe. Your heart caving in on itself. Do your lungs comply? Or have they betrayed you too like you betrayed me?

How does it feel, tell me how does it feel? Does your heart beats? And if it beats does it lunges in longing? Does it lunges enough to thump through your chest wall, break bones like you broke me?

Can you get out of bed? And if you can, do your legs carry you far enough to run from the carnage- blood and guts and slaying. Is your jar of hearts finally filled to the brim? Is it spilling? If not, do you need more still? How many more to satiate your thirst for hearts? Tell me.

Do you apologize? Tell me have you said sorry? And if you have, does it changes anything? Does it fix the slew of arteries you ripped apart and countless veins you left to bleed?

Do you feel guilt? And if you do, is it eating you alive the same way you swallowed me? Took my existence from me. Stole me from me. Do you even feel like a thief?

Or, do you hush the voices in your head every night,
Lay your remorses to rest along with the corpses of all those you have murdered,

and go peacefully to sleep?

Tell me.

Hurt Me 


He shoved her against the wall. Her back hitting the concrete with a loud thud. A painful breath escaped her lips as she felt the impact surge through her back and spine. It felt like her heart crashed against her chest wall and the only reason it didn’t leap out of the cavity was because her ribs didn’t let it. And it wasn’t just the physical impact of the shove that made her feel that way.

She fell to the ground in a trembling mess as he came running to pick her up.

Oh my God. Shit shit shit. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” He babbled the words trying to lift her up. “I didn’t mean it.”

She didn’t have to see the bruises to know that they had already marked her shoulders as she whimpered in pain when he touched her.

Touch.

His touch.

A part of her despised it. But a part of her still warmed up to it. A part she needed to smother. Like the way his arms were smothering her as he took her in his embrace. The embrace that now felt more like gallows than home. His arms felt like thorns etching into her skin as she tried to recoil away from him but failed to do so.

I’m so so sorry.” He kept repeating the same words.

She couldn’t cry. The pain was searing through her body in violent frenzy, running through her veins and lungs looking for an escape somehow. Only to return back to her heart in vain. She didn’t say a word and he kept spitting some more meaningless apologies as they sat on the floor in air that reeked of heartbreak and hundred broken promises. And the only thing that was kind to them in those moments was night as it stood a silent witness to their downfall. There was nothing left between them but question marks about love, if there ever was. Even ‘nothing‘ felt like a lot more than what they two had left between them now.

(Daily post: Anticipation,  Maddening)

A Thousand Deaths


She was dying a thousand deaths and I couldn’t save her from the carnage taking place right in front of me. I could see her struggle to breathe with every gasp of air that felt as thick as molten lava slipping down her throat. And she had no other option but to chug it. Let it burn holes through her windpipe with every intake.

The pain though, was in her eyes. It was an avalanche and I could see her asphyxiate under it. There was a torrent of undiluted anguish- as crude and concentrated as venom. And I could see how with every thump of her heart beat, it was being pushed down her veins and into her arteries. Deeper, deeper, deeper. Much deeper than I could ever manage to reach.

I could do nothing but sit there and watch that pain gush out of her system like flood, as an outpouring flux engulfing me. If only she didn’t have to die a thousand deaths in front of me. If only our love wasn’t a tragedy. If only saving her was as easy as holding her hand at this very moment. If only, if only, if only.

If only she would lift up her head and see me looking at her. She would understand, how somethings are not meant to be fixed. Somethings are better left broken. Because sometimes, broken is beautiful and so is she.

_______________________

Side note: This post is dedicated to everyone who has ever suffered from loss. For anyone who has known grief. For anyone who knows what it’s like to lose someone you love. Whether the loss was physical in the form of death or an emotional/metaphorical loss. I see your pain and I know how it feels❤️

(Daily post: MissingNew Horizon)

A Chaos Within

(Chaos: This week let’s embrace disorder and it’s creative power.)

There is this moment before the heartache. When you know it’s coming. It isn’t there yet. You don’t even know why you think it’s forthcoming but you feel it in your bones. Like your soul has felt it coming from miles away.

This moment before the pain is about to hit you and you know it will devastate you. It hasn’t arrived yet. But you know it will. And you know it will open the wounds again. The wounds of decade that took centuries to heal.

You prepare yourself beforehand. You are sure of its factuality. So there is this night, where you lay on bed and you don’t really know why your heart is sad. Neither do you know why you want to cry. But you do.

And then all of a sudden there is this moment of realisation that this is you mourning for what’s about to become of your heart. Which is already hanging through the gallows waiting for the final call to its execution. The strings are cut one by one with which it hangs firm and it slowly looses grip. And you know it’s about to fall. It hasn’t fallen yet. But you know it’s about to. You already know. And there isn’t one damn thing you can do about it. It’s inevitable.

It will come like a tide of the ocean that slowly builds. The more it gets closer the more ferocious it becomes, and you know you are going to fucking drown. You try to save breaths, prepping yourself for the impact. But you know no matter how well you’ve prepared yourself, the tide is going to come and it will break you. Like beads off a pearl necklace; You will spill. All the pieces of yourself that you put together one by one all this time will spill…just like that. Like they were never stringed together so tenuously to begin with. Like they had always been so haphazardly splattered across the floor.

Though none of that has happened yet. But you feel it coming and you know it will happen. So this night where you are trying to make sense of why you still can’t find peace? This is the calm within the storm. Where you know the storm will soon reach the core of you and you will be blown to smithereens.

And so, this is you; grieving.

We Bleed (To Transform)

(Transmogrify)
img_20150410_175947

I don’t know what it is about blood. We claim it’s a bad thing yet we can’t stop bleeding. We let others wound us over and over again until gash is a foot deep into our soul. Sometimes we wound others and get wounded in the process.

We clutch tightly to barbed wires of emotional attachments and walk on the burning coals of expectations. And by the end of it when we fall on the ground profusely gushing and wounded to our core, we make promises to ourselves; never again. But as we all know, promises are made to be broken.

The wound is by now infected because you didn’t take care of it well. You didn’t suture it on time and you didn’t put the bandage when you should have. You just let it be; as a reminder of all the things you loved that ruined you.

We fall back onto bed made of thorns of disappointment, exhausted. And bleed some more. We bleed until we can’t. We ache until every muscle in our body refuses to ache anymore. We suffer until pain itself screams in pain. Until the infection has spread onto every small vein and down to our very bones. Until we find ourselves disintegrating- crumbling, decaying, withering.

But,
How else could we have become anew,
If we had not first become ashes?

Let’s Make A Change

(WPC: The SunShine )

“Let me tell you something: no one is going to look at you, broken and shattered 
and think -
damn, you are beautiful.
No one is going to come pick up your broken pieces off the floor and
 assemble them into a beautiful whole.

Hell,
 you won’t even look at yourself and think – 
I made broken look beautiful.

You know why?

Because all those writers lied to you.

Yes, 
all those with their poems of scraped knuckles and 
blood dripping down chins, 
pomegranate songs and loves that ripped through you like 
hurricanes.

Liars.

So you and I, 
we are going to make a plan.

You are not going to romanticize days when your brain tells you to smash that mirror,
You are not going to romanticize the lover who doesn’t understand you 
but still writes about you.

Here is what you are going to romanticize instead:
You are going to romanticize the first day of spring,
Its gentle hands all over your body,
Lifting you up until you are as light as a feather.

You are going to romanticize the tea and honey kind of love,
No hurricanes, 
but sunshine that builds you up from within,
That helps you make it through the worst days.

You are going to romanticize gentle hands of a friend 
in yours,
Telling you that it is going to be okay.

Because it is.

And don’t trust poets, 
we’re no good,
 we love pretending that our jagged edges tantamount to a beautiful disaster, but in reality – 
there isn’t nothing beautiful about shaky hands holding a cigarette and 
empty eyes staring at the cracks in the walls.

You know what is beautiful, instead?

The days when you can look at yourself in the mirror and smile, 
scars and all.
Music that makes your soul flow like a river, 
books that offer comfort, 
families flocking together like overgrown birds to keep you safe and warm,
 friends that give you strength when you can find none, 
lovers who make you laugh through tears.

Baby, 
from now on 
you are going to romanticize healing;
Honey dripping down your fingertips,
August nights that stick to your skin, the day you find your purpose, 
long car rides and singing so loud that no one can shut you up now.

Bad news: 
no one is coming to save you.

Good news: 
you can save yourself.”
– Lana Rafaela (via wnq-writers.tumblr.com)

( Daily Prompt: Millions )