My mother killed her self

And she's been covered in a shroud ever since.

She walks like a corpse;

Talks like a corpse;

And she laughs like a corpse

For corpses do not at all.

I can't love my mother —

Can't offer my heart to such crumbling act of nature

Flesh giving way to worms;

A home made of manure.

I love my mother,

Just as people love their god —

Turning flesh into divinity and keeping it afar.

A home made of bricks respiring faith with every breath

Faith?

Faith which itself resides in the swirling, blustery winds up high?

I can't love my mother —

A piece of flesh denying its own blood.

I can't love my mother —

Nor the woman in whom she's grown.

A wrought iron crucifix;

Burn of metal on sizzling bone.

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My mother says she loves my dad,

But wouldn’t leave the house without makeup on.

My mother says she loves my dad,

But holds her breath when the air begins to smell of him.

My mother says she loves my dad,

But begs him every night;

With her hands clasped tight to her chest,

At the altar of their marriage and their child.

I’ve been told and I’ve been shown

That love means not letting go

With one hand in the air, and the other around a bottle,

Hands have a way of proving love of their own.

I am forbidden to ever breathe a word of it,

For perhaps love is safest in the dark.

My house smells a bit rusty, and metallic at nights,

And my mother covers every inch of her skin the next morning,

As if the sun itself rose with a warning.

My mother loves my dad more than anyone else in the entire world —

More than me; more than herself; more than both our lives.

My mother loves my dad,

Or perhaps her ruin is all she’s ever had.

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I walked down that path this Tuesday,

Saw your bicycle lying there, all rusted.

Walked a bit more, and saw the lemon tree you'd planted with your mum —

A thousand suns bade me goodbye as I parted ways.

Your doorbell doesn't work anymore,

And the girl next door has long since grown.

She has a family now;

Lives with her husband and two dogs.

She looked my way

And her gaze bled my eyes dry

I don't belong in this place,

Just like you never did in mine.

Saw your pictures hanging on the wall;

Felt like you never left —

Saw us emptying boxes of cereal on the carpet,

But what good's a thing when it doesn't reflect light anymore?

Your room wasn't locked today, as it always was

But I didn't go in, for you'd never want me to.

I got to the kitchen for some water,

But my foot hit your knee as I was about to leave.

Well, now that I think about it,

The floor's never been maroon, has it?

"Oh, you attention-seeking maniac"

As mum would've said, you know.

Bending down to your level, I pick up the fallen cutter;

Kids shouldn't be playing with blades, you know.

Getting back up, I met your eyes,

And I swear

I've never once looked prettier in a mirror before.

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If my name had a voice
It’d say her name
And if my name had a limb
It’d crawl her way.
Draped in moonlight — a midnight glory,
A shroud spread over the words long buried.
A deity carved of marble
Or perhaps a deity carved of bone?
I can’t crawl out of a vessel
That’s been upended in my name;
Can’t look at your eyes
And not see her bleeding face —
Can’t mould your name into something pretty;
Only got muscle for a mind —
Can’t demand love from memories.
Draped in moonlight — a new moon glory.
A hand was thrust down my throat,
And my name was pulled out of me.
Perhaps all I see is her breath on my flesh
For my own was wrung out of me
By a deity carved of rotten, putrid tongues.
A breath; a sigh — will my life suffice a goodbye?
And if your love can’t change,
Please love them enough to not love them again.
And if you can’t say it the way she says,
Please don’t say my name ever again.

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I stood on the top of a building once, in the dead of night, with not a single soul in sight. The chilly wind hit my skin like daggers, but my feet didn’t budge an inch.

I looked down at the cold concrete below, and it whispered to keep me safe, calling me by name with wide outstretched arms. I couldn’t help but feel at peace.

A minute; a day; a year; a lifetime — all crumbled to dust right before my eyes. Swirling along with the wind; intertwined with the breath of every person that has ever lived, somehow the melody found its way back to me — the one my sister used to sing to me when the house was all dark and quiet; devoid of any shadows and light. It came, grasping the hands of the fragrance of those blood-red rosebuds I picked out for my father, long before he didn’t want to be one.

The hills at the horizon laugh and snicker at me, for who wouldn’t at a pathetic creature like this? My life has never been my own, yet it still somehow breathes my name.

I look down at the cold concrete below, in the dead of night, with not a single soul in sight, and wonder to myself,

‘If a tree falls in a forest and no one’s around to hear it, does it even make a sound?’

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My sickness follows me everywhere.
In the busy marketplace at daybreak,
In the dark, lonesome alleyways at midnight.
My shadow has grown reminiscent of its stench,
Its absence — a mirage.

My sickness is a part of me — my self;
And I of it — itself.
With no beginning, nor an end
I am my sickness, and it my self.

Perhaps there is a life devoid of any malady;
Perhaps there is a breath devoid of any tragedy —
My sickness feeds me, or rather, feeds on me —
I can’t tell them apart.

It held my hand whilst I took my very first steps,
And it held onto my bicycle when I first learnt to ride.
We stayed up late at night cooking instant noodles,
Trying so very hard to be quiet.
Oftentimes, a spoon would slip from our hands and land with a disastrous drumming.

My sickness has seen me, far, far more than any mirror ever could.
And perhaps that’s the reason I could never let go of it —
Like a parasite feeding on its host
I, too, have no existence outside of it at all.

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You can curse, and scream, and smash plates on the floor,
But nothing hurts anymore.
My left arm lies as evidence of me trying to feel something — anything.
Perhaps ‘feelings’ aren’t meant for people like me at all —
People with a sick mind and an even sicker soul.

I am my sickness, and it my self
It is through my sickness I breathe,
It is through my sickness I see —
Day after day; hour after hour:
A second stretched to eternity.

It fed me with its own hands,
And embraced me for what seemed a lifetime.
I laugh, I chortle, I curse, I scream,
And it’s all just noise to me.
And perhaps that’s all there is to me —
A forgotten tv gone static for too long;
A half-filled moulding cup of coffee by the bedside.

A sick world birthing a sick soul — there’s no tragedy in that.
I have no broken bones, and all my organs work as they ought.
The people watching me have knives in place of eyes
For a broken soul is not the same as a broken bone.

It is through my sickness I breathe,
And it is through my sickness I feel,
For I am my own sickness, and it my self.

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Perhaps the most fascinating thing about the human body is its ability to keep going. The muscles heal themselves, and broken bones fuse back together. Bleeding cuts return to life as callouses, and torn flesh eventually embraces itself.

The mind, then, is perhaps an altogether different entity of its own. Broken and bruised by time, it lies scattered on the floor like glass shards, patiently waiting for one’s own self to step on them. Glass shards — they look like stars when sunlight pierces through them. Perhaps not every star requires darkness to glisten from afar; perhaps all some need is the warmth of another.

Perhaps not every flower is meant to be born with thorns, nor arise from the mud to be beautiful. Not every breath needs to be born of suffering to be worthwhile, and not every ink put on paper needs to be crimson.

All that’s gold is made to be lost, and just like the moon, all that’s silver is made to be treasured. We see our flaws magnified in every reflection of ours, but just as the reflection of the sea above carries not even a fragment of its reality, we, too, with our own seas within, cannot rely on a mere surface to gauge the depth it was never meant to hold.

Grief replaces love, and anger finds its way out through tears. Wounds are etched on our flesh, draining out all the blood from our bodies. And we heal despite; we go on despite.

And when darkness finds its way back to us, perhaps all we can do is light a candle. For dying by a flame is far more revered than being consumed by the dark.

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Perhaps not every person is destined for greatness; perhaps they are meant for something serene. Perhaps some are meant to catch the ones flying lest they fall, or perhaps some don’t dream of flying at all. With every tide lashing hard against the shore, and every breath hammering hard against your chest, perhaps some aren’t meant for this world at all.

I don’t yearn for fame, and nor do I wish to be one of the ‘greats’. Perhaps the most fulfilling day of my life was when I realised there was no meaning in anything at all.

We stride, we stumble, we scrape our knees on the hard concrete, but we keep moving despite it. A bruise is a bruise, and a cut is a cut. What breathes is what bleeds, and what strides is what gets thrown in the dirt. Our every hurt is just so full of life that it doesn’t need any ‘meaning’ to survive — to breathe and to be alive. We can cradle it in our arms and put it to sleep for a while, but at the end of the day, it’s all our own to deal with. It’ll cry and whine at midnight, and we must be able to soothe it at all times.

Perhaps the greatest blessing for humanity was its mortality. Just like time withers every flower it sees, and just like the sea pulls back each of its beings, we too, with all our love and hurt in our arms, succumb to this great miracle.

Perhaps not everyone is meant for greatness, and perhaps that is the greatest thing of all.

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A monster never recognises the monster within, for in doing so, it’d be stripped of its monstrosity.

Oftentimes, I wish I could just scoop up all my hurt spilt on the floor, and gulp it down once and for all — but I can’t. The carpet lies as evidence of the mess, and the walls give off a putrid stench.

I can’t be a monster and a human at the same time — my conscience would either gnaw away at my sanity, or relieve me of my memories. I cannot bring a knife to my wrist and talk of love; I cannot beg before an altar and reject the deity. And when love takes the shape of love I never had, I cannot push it away for the creature I once was.

Organs stitched together with crimson threads, and conscience confined in a shell. Shattered hearts crushed to dust from incessant footsteps — mere corpses waiting to be devoured by mud. Eyes hollowed out by days long gone, begging and pleading before a God they cannot see.

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There can’t be a greater tragedy than humans failing to be humane, nor is there a more pitiful thing. After all, what are we, if not a mere fragment of reality, and what is reality, if not a mere reflection of our own?

Blood is spilt on paper as evidence of the bloodshed within, for we are mere humans and not divinities of the sky; mere humans, each with our own altar of goodbyes. We can’t dry out the rivers we once swam in, and can’t wish for petrichor from a summer’s sky. As creatures doomed to mortality, we hardly have a say in anything at all — the stars shine of their own accord, and the colour of our insides bade us goodbye in the evening sky.

I can’t go back and wring out all guilt from the blanket of time, nor would it be fair to the person on the other side. We can’t undo all the flesh we bled, nor can we stitch it back together with our crimson threads. Hearts were crushed, and to dust we’ll all return.

Our hurt, I believe, is all our own — just like the blood swirling within us. We can resent it, we can despise it, but at the end of the day, it’s what keeps us alive. And isn’t that the beauty of it? — of life. That it doesn’t get to be as it was? A bit broken, a bit tarnished, with paint scraped off at the edges, and crayon scribbles all over the place.

And I think that’s what makes it our own — our very own home, where each brick has a tragedy to tell.

To be born as a human was not in our hands, but to die as one, sure is.

For as long as we accept that we are monsters, I believe, that would end up making us humans.

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And yet the sun still rises. And yet still the crescent glow remains nothing but a mere translation of its lover’s warmth. The sky still lends us its turquoise, and the oceans still spill out of the corners of our eyes.

The planets don’t stop spinning for a single person, nor do the stars stop reckoning with the blanket they lie on. A humorous tragedy, if you come to think of it — the nature, like the breath of air that escapes your lips when you lose something you can’t imagine your life without. Grief replaces the warmth of a person, and photographs replace all that’d once been flesh and blood — and yet the Earth still keeps spinning.

Somewhere, far away, a kid still embraces their parents; friends still laugh together, ignorant of the time yet to come. Someone still gets to wake up every day without the ceiling weighing down on them. Someone out there still has a hand reaching out to them, were they to ever fall. Some don’t have this crippling anxiety, where each breath bruises your insides.

People are happy out there — echoing back all the laughter of the world. No one lives in this constant delirium that I’m tied to — so much so that now I can’t tell where I end and where this madness begins. People can get up and get on with their lives — happily, even. Their blood doesn’t flow black for all the ink they didn’t spill; for all the words that withered unsaid.

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A thousand diseases, and more so, the casualties. A thousand troubles, and more so the tragedies. A thousand voices scream in my skull, rattling all the bones in my body. And there’s no end to this, for I can’t forsake myself.

I can’t take my entirety in my palms and crush it to bits; can’t throw it so hard for it to shatter all around; can’t erase every trace of it to ever exist.

I cannot look at the kids embracing their parents and not resent them for it. I often ask myself, ‘What would I have to trade to be in their place?’ But what can I even? I’m barely left with anything of my own — a mere beggar of moments is all I am.

This entire humanity — this entire cosmos of beings, could be nothing more than a sickening satire of the entity above. We thank him for petty, mundane things, but he lies excused of every grave one — a mockery of sorts, is all that it is, if one were to look at it.

Life isn’t capable of handling love, you know — every memory, every scent it touches, it tarnishes it to grief. And like a rusted, oxidised layer that it is, grief finds a home on our skin.

A thousand lives tell a thousand tales; a thousand smiles reckon a thousand tastes. A thousand lives who’ve lost their heart to the stars, and more so, the corpses walking with empty hours.

The world doesn’t stop for tragedies; the wind doesn’t blow to heal. And yet the sun still rises, and yet the Earth still keeps spinning.

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I wish to write my own words, but I envy the ones born of stars — the people who know the entirety of their hunger from their first breath. My entire existence up till now has been sewn, thread by thread, with contradictions.

I wish I had passion in my blood and ambition flowing in my veins; tongue made of copper so I’d shield it from every droplet of rain — afraid of getting it tarnished.

There is a weary irony in that — the stars. If they’re handed down to you, overflowing in palms, they take the shape of an enormous burden eclipsing your desires. But if forsaken, they make way for an even gruelling future.

Nothing is more difficult than finding your own way in life — to not have someone to fall back to, or reach out to, even, is a curse of its own. ‘The road less travelled by’ is so glamourised, studded with pearls and gems which reflect all sorts of light, that people forget it leads to nowhere — the destination is not your familiar childhood home, nor all the people you’ve outgrown.

Frost took the road less travelled by, but was bound to this earth nevertheless — confined by the shackles of gravity. But I yearn to fly. I want to soar to the highest stars, take them in my palms and crush them all till they scatter below me, far, far away, beyond sight.

I’m not a writer, or a doctor, a lawyer, an engineer, nor am I particularly skilled in any aspect of life. I have no direction, or rather, too many all at once, and only these two feet to rely on.

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Every once in a while, I look up at the flock of birds perched high on branches. They all work in such a union, flying off and soaring together in the sky, as if they have a magical language of their own. I often wonder whether I, too, would soar so high if I were to learn that secret language of theirs.

But at the end of the day, whether I like it or not, I need to come to terms with the fact that I wasn’t born with wings for arms, nor a beak for a mouth. For what else can I even do? I can resent the stars and the birds for making a home of the sky, or I can shut my eyes tight and pretend it’s not there — the stars, the birds, and everything in between, and that’s all. That’s all I’d be left with.

Humans have no such magical language, so I’ll have to make do with what meagre words I know, and survive on what faint vocabulary my eyes are accustomed to.

For just like Frost, I too am a mere human, with arms for wings, and feet to take me ahead. I can skip, I can stride, with all that these feet can take. But at the end of the day, a leap is as close to the sky as I’ll ever get.

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She once was dark as the midnight sky;
Tear-laden clouds destined to cry.
A word; a whisper; a melody; a lullaby —
She grows fainter each time.
Appears accompanied by the morning star,
She walks by my side, one foot at a time.
I’ve never seen her cry — emotions are a myth;
One breath at a time, or she’ll leave.
She cradles time in her arms, —
A breathing deity of the past.
But she lies devoid of any memories,
At the hem of my subconscious.
At twilight, she’ll devour your soul alive
And vanish with the crescent glow in the sky.
A step, a stride, a leap, a plunge,
She is growing fainter each time.
Talk to her, and her lips mimic your mind —
A word, a whisper, a melody, a lullaby.
Sits and waits for the condemned decay;
A breathing deity born of your breath.
Fortitude repulses her, —
I’m chained in confinement.

Once as calm as the midnight sky, —
My shadow’s eating me alive.

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I dream of a home in distant lands —
One devoid of any voice.
Where the walls don’t sing lullabies,
And tongues devoid of any knives.
Where the windows let in air with a hint of the sea,
And the floorboards don’t creak with memories.

Here, water is scarce — it never forsakes your eyes,
Mistakes are made, but silence sleeps unheard —
This place of mine doesn’t wound the lonesome.
Here the love embraces your flesh —
Through the branches, it reaches out for you.
Breathe in your memories, but don’t exhale just yet.

No, not yet.

One day you’ll find a home in distant lands, —
Turquoise walls and mustard tiles.
Where your sorrow won’t echo through the hallways;
And grief wipes the tears streaming down your face.
Where eyes know no language,
And fingertips no grovel.

In stars we are apart,
And in darkness we’ll meet,
A home, a hand — a distant memory.

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My eyes are intestines — absorbing all the abuse I ever placed between my teeth, and all the insults I’ve licked have left a rancid aftertaste within me.

People say it’s love that needs to be devoured — to be caressed, squished, and smeared all over your mouth as evidence of having cared too much, to have all your garments reek of wild berries, and hair of pungent smoothies.

But who licks the dirty plates? — and who clears the mess you’ve made? Who sifts through dirty laundry to find your lost earring, and who dusts the empty hallways of your once-merry moments?

There is a certain relish to pungence that stings deeper, yet one can’t stop craving the taste of it. And in all honesty, nothing tastes half as good as abuse to me. As one licks the melted chocolate off its wrapper, and demolishes those crumbs at the bottom of the jar — I, too, find a peculiar pleasure in consuming the remnants of it — those bits that would’ve gone to waste either way.

You know, I’d spent all my life thinking my hurt was what made me deserving of love — just like beggars with a broken limb or two earn more pennies than the normal ones. But wounds were never meant to be showcased; they were meant to heal.

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Growing up, I’d been taught to always finish my plate, no matter what had been served. So gradually, as time started thinning at the edges, my tongue grew calloused to taste — praises, slurs, slanders, all began to taste the same. And like a diligent daughter that I was, I left behind no morsel — I chewed it all up and pushed it down my system. Far enough for it to never come back up.

Until one day, it did. The gurgling acid found its way up my oesophagus and out my teeth, burning everything to ash — reality became a mere memory, and sensation found a mind of its own. The horrible stench of the vomit has still not gone away entirely — it still lingers behind my ears.

And that’s the thing with anguish — if you try to digest it, without first swallowing it, it ends up swallowing you whole.

So dig right in when it’s served hot on your plate. Dirty your hands — let the juices drip down to your elbows, let the starch marinate on your tongue, and let your flesh absorb all that your past has to offer.

You cannot excrete what you don’t consume; cannot discard what you refuse to have. It’s messy, it’s sticky — it’ll spill on your clothes, and stain them. It’ll crawl from your mouth to your chin, to your neck. And you’ll have to let it. You’ll have to let it ruin your perfect dress, your perfect smile, your perfect mirage.

For just like love, wounds need to be devoured with both hands as well.

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I’ve bled yellow,
Like the crushed dandelion beneath your feet.
And I’ve bled purple
Like the starry sky, your eyes refuse to meet.
Last night, my past crawled back to me,
It came on all four limbs and sat beside me.
Tears had left patches on her cheeks,
And her eyes were swollen with memories.
Her marigold skin was all blistered and bruised,
But a fine, thin smile had been sewn on her face.
Chopped up into uneven parts —
Her hair was a dark ombre —
Few strands plastered to her forehead,
She only spoke in hushed voices —
Making melodies of screams my ears had erased.
Tracing the footsteps back to my feet,
Last night, my past crawled back to me.

A whisper, a lullaby, crumbled all architecture to dust,
A wish; a fragment; a salty trail, if I must,
My eraser had scrubbed hard against the paper,
But then again,
What am I even without those crumbs?
I have seen a life, — with flowers for a mind,
And I have seen a mouth — with petals for a tongue,
With thorns scraping the insides with every breath,
Words hidden behind words,
Silences hidden behind laughter —
Blinded eyes playing a game of charades.
Last night, my past crawled back to me,
And this time,
I held her tightly.

Still in awe of the way she held this piece — nature

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Love comes in all shapes and sizes, but somehow its shadow always remains the same. And it seems to linger on — in the eyes, in the tip of the fingers, in the corners of a smile — long after one’s had a taste of it.

The dark, hazy morning to which the city woke after an incessant downpour, and the school being cancelled as a consequence. The warm, sticky breeze finding its way through each strand of hair, melting the stone-cold popsicles in our hands. The school picnics to waterparks and roller-coaster rides, and the familiar blankets’ warm embrace at the end of the night.

The smell of freshly cut watermelons, and the chill, tangy lemonades in the afternoon sun. Building huge sandcastles only for them to be washed away in the next second. Feeding the stray cats each time you pass by their street.

In the fleeting side glances of inside jokes, in the paint that has remembered all the laughter that once echoed through the walls, in the tear-soaked pillowcases that have completely dried up now.

In the memories that all the scars hold — the mirrors refuse to recognise me now. This house, once filled with giggles and carefree days, has been hollowed out by nails. Scrape by scrape, all paint has worn off. Scrape by scrape, all mirrors have been marred.

Now the windows don’t open, and the sunlight has forsaken its abode. Now the flowers don’t grow, and the strays are long dead. The road no longer goes to where it once led. The streets are empty, and the stars have forgotten fate; time creeps slowly, avenging every breath.

The beaches have dried up, and the laughter’s rotten. Tears fill our empty glasses now; the salty water reminiscent of sandcastles— with nothing left to destroy, the tears challenge the ground. Incessantly hitting it, till it eventually breaks down.

The street lights no longer work, for this is an abandoned alley. The doors have a fragrance of long-gone farewells and goodbyes. The carpet still lies stained with the spilt wine.

Time has flown by, with its wings slapping hard against my face. Now Santa doesn’t visit this place, and birthdays have become mundane. And the kids have grown into adults who forget.

Now, fruits lie aged all over the counter, and the dirty dishes have piled up at the sink. The house is covered in cobwebs, with every unsaid word caught up in it.

The spiders devour their meal, and this place I once called home —

For the first time, I leave without having a meal.

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Quite an ordinary day it was for Mr Jerkins. And why would it not be? He had just sold three burnt-out cars as brand new for thrice the sum he had to pay for them! Oh, what a splendid day it was!

He hurriedly closed his shop, turned the key, and slipped it right into his pocket. He went straight to the new bakery that had opened a couple of days ago and bought two chocolate croissants that his dear friend really liked.

Oh Baggins! How many months had it been since he last saw him? Mr Jerkins still cherished his childhood days with Baggins — their playing in the park, sharing popsicles on the way back to school. You see, Bobbins had called Mr Jerkins the other day and asked to meet him at this apartment that he’d only recently rented. One can only imagine the excitement of Mr Jerkins when he picked up that call.

Now hailing a cab, he sat in the backseat; his legs shaking — he tried to steady them. He kept checking his watch every other second and nearly jumped out of his seat when the driver broke the silence.

“You seem very nervous, sir. A big day?”

“Yes, yes. Could you drive a bit faster?”

You see, Mr Jerkins was not much of a talker. He wildly scrambled for his wallet to pay the man and rushed out to room 301 to meet his friend.

Rang once — no answer. And after ringing the bell 15 times, the excitement dies down a bit. Ping. He checked his phone, and there came a text from Baggins which read ‘You’ll find an envelope under the rug. Please open it at your home. Take that black box home as well,’ And sure enough, there it was — the small black box near the rug. He must not have noticed it before.

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Now, a once-happy Mr Jerkins came back to his home and ripped open the envelope. There was a letter addressed to him by Baggins. Now, why on Earth would Baggins do such a thing? Mr Jerkins was very intrigued by this! Setting the letter aside, he opened the box. Quite tightly sealed it was!

A slender piece of metal; a generous grip; a hole in front — it was a gun! The gears whirred in Mr Jerkins’ mind. It couldn’t possibly be a real one. But holding the gun in his hand, it did feel a bit heavy.

Then could it be possible that it was just like one of those games they used to play as kids? It could’ve been that Baggins was reminiscing about their old days as well. A soft smile crept to his face and lingered for quite a while as he began to read his dearest friend’s letter:

Hello Jerry!

It’s been a long time. I didn’t intend for us to meet this way, but I had no choice. The gun in the black box is loaded with one bullet inside. I want you to go to my apartment again at three tomorrow. A person named Timothy will arrive shortly. I want you to aim the gun at him and shoot. Please don’t ask any questions, Jerry. A cab will be waiting to pick you up from my apartment.

Yours Truly,

Baggins.

What an odd request! Baggins couldn’t have possibly asked him to murder a man! he read the letter several times over, but came to the same conclusion each time. It’s not possible — how could it be? It must be a dream! Yes, that would explain it. A dream! Yes, a dream! That’s all that this was! Mr Jerkins closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

A thousand possible scenarios ran through his mind all night. Maybe this Timothy guy had blackmailed his poor Baggins, pushing him to his last resort? Maybe a threat or a burglary? Perhaps he’d kidnapped someone close to Baggins? Or perhaps something else of the sort?

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Quite an ordinary morning it was the next day — perhaps the most ordinary one of all. The same old curtains holding the morning sun captive, and the same day-old coffee lying beside the bedside table.

All was quiet in Mr Jerkins’ mind this morning — blank — like a tv gone static. His motions — due more to the routine than the previous night, in retrospect — were almost automatic; steady, as if the senses had a mind of their own.

He’d gotten up, skipped breakfast like usual, put his usual suit on and stepped out his door to leave for work — nothing out of the ordinary. Greeted his neighbours with a pleasant morning and petted the neighbourhood dog. Anyone watching Mr Jerkins today could not have fathomed what was about to happen next.

You see, Mr Jerkins had managed to slip the black box in his inner coat pocket before leaving — like a habit, almost — without a second thought. It almost seemed like a remote-controlled robot had replaced our old Mr Jerkins. But that wasn’t true, no, for it was our same old usual Mr Jerkins going for his same old usual work.

Except he didn’t reach his workplace today. One second, he was petting his neighbour’s friendly dog, and the next, he was standing right outside a room marked 301.

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Sweat trickling from his temples, he glanced at his watch. It read 2:50pm — good, there were still a few minutes to spare. Everything was just perfect.

He got the key and ever so slowly turned the lock. Click. The door opened. He got in and got the gun ready to use in his hands any minute now.

First look at the room, and Mr Jerkins knew that something was wrong. There was a huge bed upfront, and the sharp afternoon sun was spilling through the windows. But now that he looked more closely at it, those didn’t seem to be pillows beneath the blanket — it ever so slightly rose and fell; rose and fell again. A subtle thing as this probably wouldn’t have caught the eye of an ordinary person, but Mr Jerkins is no ordinary person. It seemed as though a person was hiding beneath that blanket.

Mr Jerkins checked his watch — five minutes to three. Could it be that this Timothy guy had somehow managed to break in before him and was now hidden under that blanket?

Out of an instinct, his grip on the gun tightened, and as if possessed by an entity, he pulled the trigger.

A loud bang and then all went quiet again — as if a hammer had been dropped to the floor. The air around him was brimming with dead silence, but nothing changed — everything remained just as it was.

The bed — it didn’t move an inch. The blanket and the pillows stayed exactly where they were. The only difference now was that a dark scarlet was crawling all across the blanket — a very distinct change of shade of the blanket, that would’ve caught the eye of any mere passer-by. It crept forwards, staining the threads; cautiously, finding its way through every stitch, every crevice.

This was it. This had been done. There was no going back now. All was done.

A sudden knock on the door startled the life out of Mr Jerkins. He patiently waited for the person to go away, but a second rap compelled him to answer the door, so as not to raise any suspicion. As he opened it, painstakingly, leaving just enough space not to reveal the scene behind, he locked eyes with a pair of black marbles before his mind could even register the events unfolding before his eyes.

“It’s a pleasure to have finally found you, Mr Jerkins! I brought up these chocolate croissants that you’d forgotten in your car yesterday, sir. Are these for your roommate?” Said Timothy, clasping his hands together.

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An apple a day keeps the doctor away,
You’ve eaten one too many; darling, do you feel okay?
Scalpel in his hands; bulging eyes; raven hair
You must find a door, a hole, a way.

Tarnished breath, like some metal’s been rusted
Strapped in a seat, the metal chains licking your bruises.
Feel the veins pop out of your eyelids,
A move, a rustle — a divine intervention,
Leaking adrenaline in your blood — a gore corrosion.

Sickening devotion —
Fingernails impersonating knives on the armrest,
The mind begging to detach from sensations
A second, a minute, a memory, a lifetime;
To relish the rapture of juvenile suicide.

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Hunger has crawled to the tip of his fingers,
Soaked in filth and wrung dry of emotions.
A meter, a foot, a breath, an inch closer.
Your breath has drowned in the pulse of your heart —
What a divine sensation.

A click, a spark, a flick of the match
A slip, a scratch, will tear off your limbs.
Now hush little baby, don’t you cry;
The doctor’s here — it’ll be alright.
He’ll sing you your favourite lullaby,
As he removes all despair from your eyes.
Your tongue is a tragedy, and your ears have no use.
The muscle thumping against your ribs is worth a dime, so discard it, too.
He’ll sew your screams together and make you a pretty dress.

Now one wish is too many,
So I’ll leave you two be,
A second, a minute, a memory, a lifetime,
For you to relish the rapture of your own mind.

Inspired by ’s most recent work. There’s something about the way she writes that stays under your skin — so grateful for the kind of art that makes you write back!

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At times I feel like I try too hard; breathe too hard, speak too loud — and it doesn’t seem to be getting me anywhere. At 18, I’d thought my life would end, so I didn’t have a clue of what to do at 19, and now I’m stuck — I can’t move. I’m terrified of nothing more than my future. It’s like sitting in a haunted house alone at night — you’re too scared to move, so you just sit there; eyes shut tight, embracing yourself.

People around me think it’s something that I can just get out of one day. Simply flipping a switch and the light comes back on. My mind has gone static — like that old tv that doesn’t work anymore, yet still turns back on — it’s useless.

People my age know what they have in their hands, and they hold it with such a tight grasp. They are afraid of letting it slip through their fingers. And I can’t even find something to hold on to, let alone cherish it.

I have accomplished nothing in my life, nor is there anything I’m good at. In fact, I’m so far behind that the people who were once beside me are now mere dots in the distance. I have no goals, and I’m devoid of any ambition. I was way too busy surviving when others were planning their lives ahead.

My nightmare is knit by the ticking of the clock mounted high on my bedroom wall. I wish I could take out its batteries and smash it so hard on the ground that the Earth consumes it.

I wish this huge rock would stop spinning.

I wish the raindrops would crystallise in the sky, and I wish for it to be forever daytime.

I can’t sleep at night. I’ll puke the next day if I force myself to. The day goes by in a blur, and the night sits at the top of my head like a looming tragedy.

I have no friends; no one to talk to. I push people away when they start getting too close. I wish they’d just hang around like stars in the sky — bright enough for me to see them, but far enough for them to affect me. They are pretty, aren’t they — the stars?

I have only quite recently discovered that writing, for me, has the same effect as harming myself. The few moments of intense brain fog, and then relief, as if someone had lifted the lid off a pot of boiling water, and all the steam had suddenly found its way out of that claustrophobic space.

My parents are very conservative. They refuse to acknowledge the concept of mental health and believe that simply praying to God would resolve everything. ‘You don’t have enough faith’, they say. ‘There is Satan in your mind’, they like to remind me often. And maybe it is true; I’d like to be with someone who’d protect their own anyway.

As I’m writing this, I’m currently sitting in my room, with all the curtains closed and the light turned on. It’s a quarter past three in the morning, and the dead silence of this house is eating me alive.

I plan to eat two apples tomorrow, and perhaps a sandwich later in the evening. That’s all I can digest in a day anyway, without puking.

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I was born with my tongue stapled to the roof of my mouth. Words left unsaid — wounds left to rot in open air. An amputee of emotions — a divine tragedy.

I have conversed with dew-laden petals of fragrance; the souls long gone by in the sky; the crimson warmth seeping through my windows; the blank stares of my walls.

My skin has been peeled over and over again — even the slightest breeze stings my flesh — the rinds discarded in a corner of the house. Opinion had been born with the burden of defiance for me — of love, of respect. To voice your mind meant rejecting authority.

I was born with a pair of roses stabbed into my eyes — the petals ever so gently caressing the putrid reality, while the thorns gash hard at my mind. I have bled scarlet, and I have bled gold — a craven tragedy. The stems have grown, and the roots are intertwined with my skull, slowly finding their way out to my soul.

So plant me in a field full of sunflowers when I eventually succumb. I’ll depart, embracing the warmth I forever longed for.

With lips sewn shut, and knives for fingers, everything perishes at my touch. A lover, a loner — but never once loved. To be noticed is an honour, reserved solely for blood untainted by words.

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Chopped my hair off — the scissors still lying thrust into my skull, in the same place you left them be. Cold as ice — melting at the faintest mellow breath.

I have seen dragons soaring in the sky; your tears forming the hues of twilight.

I have not been born devoid of love, you know. It’s been hollowed out of me, one spoonful at a time — an empty shell dressed as human. Fill me up with pebbles and let me drown in an ocean; a reflection of your faint turquoise would suffice. If not the birds, I’ll settle for the fish and swim to reach the bottom, where your blue could never reach.

Paradise — a whiff of familiar scent; I have forsaken my own. Walking barefoot on your breath, my feet have been calloused to all terrains.

To have no point of return would mean I died trying to find even a single one. Searching for the slightest sight of your fingers in the dark, I’d put mine in the mouths of animals. Now both my arms are bitten off, so please, oh please, don’t reach with yours.

I wouldn’t be able to hold them anyhow.

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My hand is a graveyard of everything I once loved —
Each finger is reminiscent of a distant one.
Each citrus I’d crushed now taints my flesh —
My skin — amber-stained rind of a tangerine.
I’ve walked as a girl, a woman, a rebel in an evening gown —
An ingenuous facade.

A sculpture carved out of naivety;
Submissive — a doormat dressed like a wedding cake.
Silk-laced buttons are stitched in place of my eyes,
My entire existence — a vulgar comedy.
Lifeless incubators don’t ask questions, for pleasure is a sin.
A life burdened with purity,
Draped with white linen and a wreath of roses crowned upon our heads,
Awards are being handed out with chocolates,
With worth sealed on our existence —
An entire plethora of emotions taped behind a gigantic sticker,
To peel it out would mean spending your entire life dealing with its sticky residue all over your flesh.

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There’s one cut, and now there’s two
And now a ninth, and now there’s a tenth.
My arm’s oblivious to my mind —
Its tyranny has come to an end.

I’ll parade the town with a forehead full of scars,
But chop off my tongue
Before it tastes hushed voices and whispers.
I’ll tear open my insides and serve it on a platter,
Before it becomes soil for your seed.
I’m no deity, nor a symbol of moral fantasies,
I’m just a woman.

Nails are screeching across a thousand boards —
The sounds muffled by lustrous white linen.
Crimson dripping over all our noses,
Just to keep yours spotless.
Stabbing my conscience with a wreath of roses,
My palms have long been scarred.

My morality refuses to reside in my skin,
Mere fabric of yours holds no authority over me.
I’m no creature doomed to your hideously piteous morality;
I’m just a woman.

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