#poptions

1 posts
  • absynth 17w

    (P)options

    The risk of losing oneself while trying not to own the other person
    Versus the reward of surrendering an unlived life
    In the hands of the very same person
    Its like a voluntary masochism from both sides
    Comes together to form a common noose
    Choking two throats till they either
    Cough out the phlegm of rejection
    Or eventually swallow the chaos whole.

    Having options was always a tricky business
    For it brings out the worst in us
    In the most real ways possible
    And the more we get away with
    The more powerful we feel
    Like bubble collectors
    Who always have space for more.

    But then options are cunning
    They create their own world of words
    And then fit in perfectly like punctuations between them
    They know too well that the ink dries off quickly
    And so do the tears
    Wetness is not always a regret
    And salty sometimes tastes better than loyalty.
    Also they know that happiness is a filthy voyeur
    Who peeks through your bedroom keyhole
    And darts away at the first sound of a step on the door.

    And when we question the options
    They audaciously answer back
    And throw new options at us
    So that we are exposed to their pandemic
    But show no signs or symptoms.
    Now the delirium is slowly taking over us
    And we too have started speaking their contaminated language
    And finally turn to new options for the cure.
    The choice is again absurd
    Either numb down with a strong dose of heavy philosophy
    Or gulp down the killer silence.

    How many words would fit into your cleavage
    Before they are sharp enough to drive a wedge through your heart?
    Is my name one of those words?
    Can distances be really bridged by a few extra inches?
    Which state comes earlier,
    The one where you stop flowing
    Or the one where you stop feeling?
    What are your escape plans
    When there is a stampede at one end
    And a precipice on the other?

    Why is realization always a late messenger
    And delivers the news only after the war is over?
    Or how come the skin is such a brittle armor
    That it falls to the blades of seduction without a fight?
    Why do some moments last exactly as long as
    Those disappearing images in your messenger
    That cannot be salvaged without taking a guilty screenshot?
    What happens to the trust that dissipates or was it never there?

    Maybe its all too plain
    Too vanilla to be explained
    Too white and spotless
    For us to resist taking a lick.
    But its cold enough to freeze the taste buds
    When left to melt on the tongue.
    The options talk too much
    They deserve this tongue treatment
    And meanwhile as they struggle to speak
    Perhaps we may try out some new flavors.
    ©absynth