The curves on the peach bed sheet were a maze where our bodies ran like maze runners, our thoughts tangled. We couldn’t have had enough of each other. But now i give it a second thought. Maybe he wanted to make up for the weekend. Maybe he felt guilty for the phone calls he made when i pretended to sleep. Maybe something else.
It was not our eyes that met when i got out of bed this morning. It was drizzling outside. And a kite had made its way up to my window, slowly tapping it: let me in; it said. I reverted my eyes to my lonesome ashtray. It pitied me as i lost something, maybe. And it didn’t have anything to lose in the first place. I emptied down my thoughts, screams and tears those i poured into it last night, into the sink. Let the water run and bade them goodbye.
// 35 mm burnt //
He didn’t kiss on my forehead when he left. I wondered whether his lips rested on other cheeks. I started refilling my ashtray. This time, with insecurities and anger. I looked at the mirror. At the reflection of my cheeks. There were lines. My lips seemed thinner, less alluring. Black clouds underneath my eyes but it doesn’t rain. I read in Stephen Chbosky’s word that we accept the love we think we deserve. Am i not deserved by now? Am i not wanted anymore? I almost whispered underneath my breaths. I was scared in ending up some pound of flesh with a hole where his beast comes occasionally for food and leaves satisfied. Some layers of skin and cells just to pass some inheritance through DNA, i was afraid.
// 50 mm burnt //
But the beard man in office, i like the way he looks at me. He makes me feel wanted. He has been married for long. Now that he looks at me in a certain way, i wonder whether he also jumps into the climax at night as mine. I wonder how his better half feels after they finish. But then i am selfish too. Last week his hand rested on my back, cheering me up for the meeting with a client. His hand rested longer. He stroked me until he found my bra line. I did neither turn nor stopped him. His hand went down to my butt, squeezing the desire out if me. He held me up and made me sit on the desk. His hands went up to all the way between my legs. He was good with his hands. Our lips and tongue intertwined. My cherry red lip stick on his lips, like spilled wine. There was a gentle bite on my left neck. I felt like old days when i was falling in love with every touch of the person i loved, i married.
He had come home a few minutes later i did.
// 60 mm burnt //
He is tired today so sleep has embraced him before it made love to my eyes. Now he is on his side and i, on my back. Staring at ceiling. The fan moves. It is old. Dust layers on it. I, wondering whether there are invisible dust layers on us which we cannot see but others can. A couple of minutes later tears trickled down through my cheeks . Not because dust layers has made love to them but the memories. Blue, grey, red; each of them.
Maybe i need to look beautiful, again. My bracelet is amiss somewhere in between rolled up sleeves and black blazer. My smoky eyes are old under specs. My lips are less alluring on the grave of ashes and cigarettes. Lines have made their adobe on my face. So i picked up a new shade of foundation, mascara. I drew my lip lines like the first line on a fresh canvas. I got fit in his favourite dress after hauling myself over the coals for months in gym. And for finishing touch i put hope and dreams into my eyes. They shine and so do i.
In those months we made love to each other several times however he kissed me less. I slept in his arms, less. He stroked my hair less after we finished. He kissed on my forehead less. He was into me but less. But tonight i am the person he fell in love with. I am the beauty here. I am the desire here.
// 80 mm burnt //
He pulled me towards him, his eyes on me whatsoever. But his lips didn’t rest on mine for long. Very soon they made their way down. And down. And so on. It rained heavily inside the room whipping out the mascara, oozing out the dreams and hope i put into. I no longer shined. I no longer smiled. It was like a whirlwind, a massacre in an ocean only up to my waist. And i could no longer drown into something i used to know as love.
// ashes ~ grey //
When Love breaks your heart you need something to lean onto. So i went to the shipwreck i came from. The name embedded on my breaths, i set it free with smoke and kept the souvenir in the ashtray. I burnt the love in between my lips and let the death count how much i lived.
(Have feast for your eyes, there is an extended part, soon)
Cigarette and After Sex // The Blue //
~ Outset ~
A perfect dress, exposing the mole on my left thigh, perfectly. Perfect sounding stiletto. Vermilion lips, smoky eyes and vague looks. A perfect bow of his. Huddles of ragtags. A dancing floor. Bass on high. His hand on my thigh, left one, cuddling the mole, trying to have a way up to the door between my legs. The song went crazy with the upper shots of vodka. Thanks to the booze, I don't remember how many times he squeezed my hips in name of flames of chemistry. Savor of alcohol, less the aroma of souls, I miss the silence we sang on our first dance.
~ 00:00 ~
We were good people. We reached home soon. I forgot to see the stars. The demon on the face of my beloved shut the window, made the curtains fall. It was for a show to be started. A show that starts behind my favourite lilac curtains. They saw us. Dear Reader, they saw us. They, my curtains. How we altered. How once his lips first used to find abode on my forehead but now first it goes below my belly, around my waist, between my legs.
~ 00:30 ~
It was quick. A sharp movement. Yes, I would call it "movement" . From unzipping my dress from on my back to loosening my pantyhose, I don't remember when he called me beautiful. There is an ablaze flame inside me, that craves to hear how jaw-dropping my curves are from his wild voice. The beast inside me, it's weak perhaps, but it is there and it finds home in those wild words. But my crooked smile was faded enough, doubting myself a deadbeat. I stared at the painting that we both painted for the first time after leaving the rusty town and moving onto here, while the feast of my lover was going on with his sweet tooth, behind me. I remembered how passionately we painted the canvas. He held the brushes and strokes fell on me more, than on the canvas. His first bite on my belly and my first goosebumps. It's been a while since I felt alike. It seemed a tenth of second and he was done. He was done with his job of pain and pleasure. The waves of salacity were high but I lived, away from kisses, in pulls and pushes.
~ 1:00 ~
He was done. He turned around. I did too. Our backs gazed at each other, cuddled, mourned on past days, missed the jiffies which were meant to be and then his back too felt asleep. Mine was awake. The flowers on the round table, they slept. The celling fan was tired of counting my sighs. My cellphone was dead. The bedsheet wanted me to sleep. The curtains sang. But I wanted them to dance with the whiff outside.
~ 2:00 ~
He was on his back. I was on my side. And I remember the day when we both fell asleep on the floor of terrace, barefoot, without blanket, last year. Slowly his shoulder headed towards me, an inch. And my head stepped along another inch. And we stayed there in that moment. He was on his back and I was on my side. We slept under the tiara of stars that the sky held on that day. In my memory, we always sleep like that.
~ 2:30 ~
There be a gap of inches betwixt us, on the bed. There was a number of crumples. But honey, it felt like we were deserted, under the same rain. We were closer so I smiled yet we were lightyears afar so another smile trickled down through my left cheek. When I was done with my nostalgia-affected-mocking, I felt a pain underneath my flesh. For a moment, honey, you seemed a stranger and our home appeared as a motel.
~ 3:00 ~
Apart from my favourite curtains and the four walls of our bedroom, there was another envelope where I chained my blue. The tiles of my bathroom, they are blue, tessellated with the figures of cheery. The tiles know me, my wails, my scars. They sniffed the smell of my blood. They know how I wept and finally made peace with each fiendish mark. They know how the water heals some times and deserves to be called as Life. As soon as I stepped into icey marble floor the tiles asked me how I was. I smiled. They got me. They were silent. I too was.
~ 3:45 ~
I was too cold. Both outside and inside. I decided to be numb. I opened the window. My favourite curtains needed to breathe. I needed to breathe. I saw the empty Adirondack swing which does forth with our dusk and dawn. I remember how our hot coffee mugs felt less warm than the warmth of our love, our giggles and surprisingly sensual kisses. A giggle dropped down on the floor, uplifting the weight of my eyebags. The gazes where we were just about to kiss each other, they mourn on the swing. I hear them. A little bit more. Aloud. Everyday.
~ 4:00 ~
Hey, whoever is listening to me, do know one thing that I love my balcony, specially the morose couch as there I first sucked on cigarette. "Yes! Cigarette! Where are you love?", I mumbled. And I found the person who knows me the best which was a tint of silence and a burning metaphor. I remember John Green, describing the cigarette as a metaphor but I find it as the observer of my own metamorphosis.
What was I waiting for? Nothing at all.
I calcined the cigarette in between my lips and let the air remember that how much I was being loved. The screams are too stereotyped so I turn them into smoke and the pain into ashes. Now here I am talking about ashes so you perhaps are thinking about phoenix. Yes, from the ashes of pain and ignorance, my phoenix of facade arises.
~ 5:00 ~
I need to go to bed and breathe like a sound asleep baby before my darling wakes up. I always want him to be proud of his beast of previous night.
~ 8:00 ~
He woke up but he didn't kiss on my forehead.
Extended part. Soon. PS. Not a series. PPS. This is an old post. I needed to repost it 'cause I need to post the second one successively. Happy Reading.
A face that has countless scattered lines of anxiety,
scattered --- as if they were playfully drawn by a kid.
Those almond shaped eyes are an ocean. An ocean
that has learnt to gulp everything in one go. Yes, sadness has a face.
A face that hides in plain sight.
It's the face :
of that old woman you met on the metro station
--- the lady who carried loose folds of skin and
bulging eyes like they were heavy bags, tiresome
to carry. But she somehow managed to zip them
to keep the contents safe (and hidden)
of that teenager who walks with drooped
shoulders --- the one who reminded you of wilted
hyacinths. His heart is a desert where dreams
once bloomed. Now, he carries the remnants of his broken dreams
and insomnia on his fragile shoulders.
of that lean man, who is a warrior in disguise. The
one whose wrinkled fingers are swords that murder
sorrows, his eyes are flame throwers and his
silence --- his ultimate weapon. All for the sake of his family.
Yes, sadness has a face. A face that has been taught to camouflage. A face that hides in plain sight.
it has parts,
of you and
all of us.
And these corners have witnessed everything from her chuckles to her screams, just everything.That dusk, one of them witnessed how she shattered, her tears, they weren't just tears, it seemed as if she had incarnadined them. The room was brimming with emptiness which was occupying the void of her heart. She was too afraid to look at her reflection. The only solution which she could find was to peel off her skin. The scars of her bruised soul lied naked but they were too blinded to see them. Her eyes had swollen. She wanted to prolapse some more tears. What if even the tears would have betrayed her?
A mother's lap in which she could keep her head and listen to her lullaby and sleep, a father's gentle embrace which is puissant enough to obliterate all the pain, a brother or a sister with whom she could share the truth hidden in the basement of her silhouette or someone's shoulder to cry upon was what all she needed. But how could she deny the fact that she was an orphan. Till then, the moon and stars were always there to sing her lullabies, she listened to them the whole night. That new moon night, the sky was cloudy. No moon, no stars, just black holes and no more were they consoling.
While craving for sleep, the whole night was passing like sand which you can't hold in your fist. At last, she got the courage to look at her reflection in the mirror. The bruised soul, the bruised skin. The look of her torn shirt and the bruises were filling the void of her heart with some unknown feeling, perhaps, numbness. Amidst this cold weather, she was feeling warmth of tears on her cheeks. People cozen you with buttery lies of being always with you and the day when you fall, you fade, no one is there to hold you. That dusk, no one listened to her screams, not even the so-called protectors of justice. She shouted but she forgot that she was shouting in front of a crowd of deaf.
Letting the fountain to dance on her face to let the water dilute the saline water. But the mixture of those stinking colognes weren't fading, it was she who was fading. Getting dressed in black, applied the mascara. What she all wanted then was to sleep. Her hands holding the bottle of sleeping pills in search of tranquility. Gulping them all, she laid down on her bed peacefully. Closed her mascara embellished eyes and get drowned in the beautiful sleep, for the first and the last time.
And that new moon, cloudy night, an insomniac slept. Slept Forever.
my native tongue may be truth, but i have seen it murdered.
so i buried it at the end of my tongue, just above my throat, enough to make it sore, enough to make me choke.
my teeth serve as tombstones that grind towards one another as they protest against the ears that heard them only once but never listened again.
it engraved its own epitaph on my lips, too many epitaphs i lost count, but i couldn't forget its taste, it tastes like rust, like regret-flavored secret, the taste of truth.
i wonder when i told them i was abused and i forgot to bring physical evidence, did my words taste like doubt hanging on the ceiling of their mouth? i know, his lies were sweet enough that they chewed it long enough to wash the bitterness of the rising conscience from their throat, they forgot, only the tongue, that's being forced fed, refuses to taste.
so when you asked me, to never lie, you should understand my tongue is too fluent of lies, that speaking truth comes with extra alphabets in the attempt to recover lost time, that air exits with the truth and enters slower with the doubt on its back.
you should understand it's been too long since i utter truth that now, it's too foreign, i stutter.
It's January again, Beginning of a year End of another Start of something new or end of bygones due My Diary is stuck whether to write resolutions or just look at incomplete ones.
It's February now, Snow is moving out slowly There's love in the air, seems so holy Hearts beat, hopes renew, lovelost ones might get lucky too.
It's March knocking, Dual scenes seen Blooming flowers and fruits across bringing smiles to everyone marching past accounting ledgers and balance sheets, young heads scanning pages after pages full of knowledge yet so much emptiness.
It's April, sultry and hot, Strikes like a bullet shot Olfactory nerves activate Buds of Mangifera Indica senses titillate
It's May, they say, might be a little lay time to make some hay Before the storm hits the Bay
It's June, Searching for prunes Listening to 80s tunes Travellers cross sand dunes
July arrives with rain and shine Hide and seek play the clouds The Sun is whaling away somewhere now
August is looking majestic Accompanying Grey Clouds, tragic Water water everywhere vision goes Deluge and discomfort add to the woes
September enters in style, With pomp, splendour and smile Bidding goodbye to raindrops Onset of happy days arriving in a while.
October lurks somewhere, In black and orange disguise rustling few yellow leaves tiptoing past a pumpkin bush moving silently towards a cemetery.
November got a running nose, A bowl of warm soup is the perfect dose Cinema, literature, and arts together come forward for a melangé.
December is freezing bad, Not so happy not so sad, Bells Jingle, Carols sung, Cakes eaten, chocolates stuffed Lights all around, there's no fear Around the corner, beckons the New Year