July 4, 2014 § 9 Comments
I love you too.
So much that I can’t even put it to words.
So much that it consumes me.
So much that some nights I sleep with the idea of you.
So much that most mornings I wake up next to you.
So much that if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have known me.
So much that every dialogue, every memory is clearly etched in my memory.
So much that I’m going to spend the rest of my life knowing that I once felt a love this pure, this strong.
And now so much, that I’ll die with the knowledge that it wasn’t unrequited after all.
June 28, 2014 § 19 Comments
It hurts at a lot of places inside you.
When he doesn’t reply to your text; when he shrugs at the mere mention of the idea of love; when you see he understands what pain you are in and does not do anything to change it; when he denies living in denial mode; when he secretly smiles at your poetry but never let’s you know; when he lives in a shell and its almost impossible for you to break it because he is resisting so much; when his touch touches you a lot deeper than the surface and he knows it; when the world ceases to move around you when he’s around and yet he’s aloof; when you watch him having a supposed illicit relationship with the freedom that he so badly needs.
It hurts. It cringes your insides. You become so desperate that you start selling yourself to him. You need him so badly yet you can’t reach out to him. You end up waking from your otherwise normal sleep at odd hours, crying your guts out. On those nights, sometimes you call him up because you want him to tell you that he could come over that very moment to hold you; sometimes you don’t because you’re a strong independent woman who must learn to handle herself.
You forget that there is something called self respect that must restrain you when the love is not reciprocated. The “self respect” has been taken out of your system, tied in a bundle and put at his feet. He might not even be aware of its existence because he’s never really seen it.
You become hopeless. Not that you stop expecting, but being hopeless assures that your expectations are grounded. So a single phone call of his can brighten you up for days.
You want to kiss him but you can’t because you don’t know how will he handle your need for intimacy. What if he misunderstands the purest of your emotions (barring the dirty thoughts) for lust? You can’t let that happen. So you hold back, resist, fight the urge to run your fingers tenderly through his hair and just kiss him!
At times you feel victimized. You hate him for not loving you back , for not reciprocating, for not understanding the intensity, for not surprising you with flowers.
On other occasions, you’ll feel as though it is only this emotion that is keeping you alive and you can spend the rest of your life staying enveloped in its arms. The arms of the emotion, not necessarily his.
It will make you, the epitome of confidence and flamboyance, conscious in his presence. The tomboy in you will suddenly be transformed into a prim and proper lady.
You wouldn’t mind driving down 20 odd kilometres only to be with him for half an hour. And the moment he’ll say that he feels guilty for not spending enough time with you, your heart will do a few somersault’s!
You’re in a constant battle with yourself. A part of you feels beautiful, the other scarred. The beautiful parts will want to continue loving him forever, the latter part makes you want to scream. A part of you feels important, the other rots.
You know that you’re headed perhaps headed for a head on crash, towards a dead end. But the least thing you’re worried about is crashing, or finding your way back. It feels as though the moth has found its flame. As though the burnt child has fallen in love with the fire.
It creates self doubt in you. You ask yourself all the time as to why would he not love you back? You’re irked with the thought that he might be capable of feeling a love so deep that can drown you, he just cannot feel it for you. Don’t even get me started about what that does to your confidence.
You would really have to work on your patience level to not tell him that of course there’s a way out. That of course something can be done about it. That of course the whole situation can be changed. If only, he could put his mental block aside and give himself a chance. You find that patience in his silence, in his resistance.
All that matters is his happiness. You don’t think twice before doing permanent damage to your self, for his momentary pleasure. People will call you silly and blind and what not, but it won’t matter. As long as he’s happy, it won’t budge your adamant ideologies about love and whatever pain it brings along with it.
Unrequited love alters the way you think, behave, function. It gets into your head and doesn’t get out. It gives you strength, yet slowly consumes you like a poison.
It makes you wish that you could look him in the eye one day, and finally get to say “I love you, too”.
And then once you start a “discussion” about unrequited love on your blog and read so many different view points, you ask yourself: “What am I doing?”
Someone might knock sense into your head and remind you that YOU are your priority, not love. That you need to find fulfillment in yourself first, before offering some of yours to someone else. That you contain all the answers to the questions you’ve never really asked him. That you’re the one living in denial mode, not him. That it’s okay to be in love,and not loved back. That you’re capable of living your life, loving him, while not being “together” with him. That you need to let go.
And you let him be.
June 27, 2014 § 16 Comments
THE SLEEVELESS HEART
Finding myself in Love I do my best
To embody the love I feel for them
In each of my words and actions
They may get it, but sometimes not
This probably has as much to do
With them as it has to do with me
If their response disappoints me
Then it wasn’t in actual fact love
But just a lesson I’ve yet to learn.
June 25, 2014 § Leave a comment
the piece of glass breathing deep inside her neck or the blood it spilled all over the mirror as she kept it there
moments that elapsed between two kisses or metaphors that forgot how to twist some meanings
pathetic poets who are loved by the herd or the meanings that do not seem to trespass the mind of the commons
the food you eat every single day or the amazement at which you look at the moon every night
blunt razors that graze on rough beards or sharp ones that like to bless the skin with cuts
the ice in your glass that melts as you talk to make your way into them or their indifference towards your thrusts later on
a frightening glance at someone passing through your closed eyes or the smile of a stranger that does not trigger a response
a bewilderment that finds itself going mad at the outburst of stability or the drops of rain that never return back to the clouds
the search for meaning in existence without trying to live or the death that is constantly nearing without your approval
shouting in an inconsolable silence, they are all growling to find a way to migrate and to burst open into that song Floyd once composed
(oh, damn, it hurts so good!)
June 24, 2014 § 2 Comments
The night had fallen. She gazed out the window and stared at the moon, the faint glow lighting up her face. It was not a pretty sight. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted, oblivious to the tears running down her cheeks. It was a night, just like any other night. The darkness, a reflection of her own agony. She was too young, too weak to be alone. But that day, just like every other day, she was. In the confines of her own four walls, cries so loud, yet no sound was heard. She sat there, thinking about what life ever gave her that it didn’t take away. She was a young butterfly, a bird who had just found her dreams. She was a lighthearted soul with stars in her eyes.
Dreams. She had dreams. Dreams she weaved out of every minute of her every day. Dreams that didn’t let her sleep at night. Dreams, that everyone she knew ridiculed her for. Dreams, that her loved ones refused to let her chase. But she was a young bird, and like every young bird she flew. She stumbled, then rose. And then she fell. In love.
This night, like every other night, she glanced at her phone. She ached to hear his voice again. She had an insatiable desire to hear him call her name. Her whimpers, muffled by the pillow she held so tight. Muffled by the pillow she liked to believe was him. But no pillow, no picture, no memory could change the fact that he wasn’t there. He wasn’t there for her to hold, he wasn’t there to play with the strands of hair that would often cover her face. He wasn’t around to let her bury her head in his chest and forget about everything. But not the world, no. For he was her world. And then came the earthquake. The man she called her own, whose eyes she saw the whole universe in, wasn’t even hers to begin with. A man whose name was joined to a woman’s long before she knew him. A man for whom she was simply one of many. The man who took away her reason to live and who took away the life growing inside her too.
She was broken. Shattered. Damaged beyond repair. He didn’t break her heart, he destroyed her soul. Everybody thought she was crazy. And crazy she was. Crazy enough to still love him. Pathetic enough to yearn for his touch every single day. Nobody cared about her life. Nobody would care about her death. Even the mighty fall, and the cowards give in. She stared at the moon, slowly drifting away into the abyss of the heaven above. Or Hell. Both were better than her life anyway. The pills made her happy. Or maybe she couldn’t feel the pain anymore. She didn’t care. This was her moment to fly. Her moment to grasp at whatever was left to hold on to. Yet she drifted aimlessly, taking one last look at the moon.
They all thought she was crazy. Now they had proof. No note was found, just an empty train of pain and nothingness. Of abandonment and apathy. She was gone, floating somewhere in the stars, relieved of the tears and misery. And long after she had faded away did they realize, all she wanted was to be someone’s favourite. All she wanted, was love.