At 3:39 am, I gulp the night with some stars and katydids. They start walking on my diaphragm and the lonely moon gazes at me continuously. And you cherish the moment while sitting inside that unnoticed morgue. I scream but you never listen.
At 4:27 am, I drink the ocean with some off-white coloured seashells and they perforate my lungs by their sharpened edges. And they sprinkle bloodstains here and there. My stomach change its colour into red. But I don't clamour.
At 5:13 am, I vomit some melodramatic metaphors and try to adorn them with your callous heartbreak and cold-blooded kisses. I am the blank verse of your sonnet ; neither rhymes nor exists. But I smile because those verses look gorgeous.
At 6:01 am, I wake up and come to my balcony to perceive the morn beams. The sumptuous sunshine pierce my smock and enter into my abdomen. And I sigh.
//not ephemeral, a permanent wound i'm ; holding some uncherished melancholies and kissed by an intolerable heartbreak//
There is a tinge of sadness in her voice when she is using the humour to make light of hers emotional eating and the weight. "I can lose 10 ugly pounds anytime - I can just cut off my head", she laughs. But underneath the humour she uses as the self defensive mechanism, she always took each and every word to her heart.
She hated being fat and ugly. She thinks the only mistake was that she is fat. She never had this thought about herself on her own, but it is the world that made her feel this way. And the damage that did to her self-esteem and self-respect resulted in the inability to see herself as anything but fat and ugly. Yet, she kept on laughing at herself when she is around people, mocking her body and hers need for food in a ways that further damaged her self-respect. But later, alone in her room she cried as hard as she laughed.
Everytime she steps out of her room, be it school, party, functions or any relatives house, people would bully her.
One day, she had gone to a party and all she did was sat silently in the corner. Meanwhile, a boy came close to her and said, "How many stomachs do you have? One, two, three ah...and.. four, offcourse the fourth one would be your boobs".
The other day, she had gone to one of her relatives home. This time too she sat silently in the corner. An aunt came to her and said, "Oh girl! How fat have you grown! Actually, thank you, atleast now there is somebody that can give competition to my daughter". Her daughter had PCOD.
She wore a top, she stood infront of the mirror. Everytime she would look at herself at the mirror, all the comments that she had ever heard would start spiraling inside her head. She took off the top, changed to the nighty and told her parents that she is not willing to go out.
That girl became so guilt of her body that she stopped going out for parties, stopped talking to boys and top of that she even stopped getting ready every day. Everytime somebody could pass the comments on her, she would laugh at herself but when she came back to her room, all she did was to cry alone, without saying anything to anyone.
Melting galaxies stir as your Parker's ink and give a spiral form to deranged rows of your poetry. So that subjecting to its gravity, I would offer my name to your verses and all those damped pages of your diary will start smelling again as rings of celestial whiffs are emitted by Hawking radiation.
We're standing on different galaxies of the same universe, where thousands of half dead clouds are craving for reincarnation. Someday we'll see collision between them, a clash between our frequencies and fewer than few points of infinity, a number of rhymes will emit, for completion of our poetry.
There're some quasars in you, I want to indulge in and want to embrace all those regions of your heart where the cosmos has left a boreal space for me. I don't know how many tongues are there to write our love. How many earths are still isolated in your cold-ink, but there're some phials, filled with liquor of crescent moons, I'm drunk over; but over you.
That intensity of your lyre's notes, creates a pseudo vacuum in outermost cells of my heart's bloodless walls and offers me some comets to drink. I give rise a poetry for your eyes having a gravity same as black holes and we don't remain incomplete anymore. Feeling You all the time, I don't feel when the dark hue of night kisses the blueness of airspace. When those serums of your poetries fill rhapsody in air and for me, there remains no difference between bounds and infinities.
Your rhymes have some sharp edges and soon they will be more intense even than a claymore. Soon sky will expose the moon behind cloudy curtains and all constellations will plot to go against their rotation, to stabilize their planetary motion. Soon the rest part of our poetry will touch the top of its perfection. Venus and earth will come more closer and soon We will.