Bruised Verses

A poet’s true curse;

Is placed on her

When she falls for the non reader.

He doesn’t glance on a paragraph too long;

She doesn’t settle for a 2-pager.

He never ponders over her cryptic posts;

She keeps pouring her feelings, enough to keep at least a list of lovers yearning.

And no matter what she ends up pouring into her poetry.

He never reads a word;

Or truly, deeply, intoxicates his soul with the lustrous spells she casts in them.

The world spins;

grooves drunk on her symphonic longing.

And sober; he walks this planet.

A true poet’s curse is always,

Kisi ki ibaadat, kisi ki mohabbat banne ka,

Kisi ka beshumaar pyaar banne ka…

Kisi mein yunhi, bebuniyaad sa hissa banne ka…

Kisi ki mohabbat banne ka…

Unki woh chaahat banne ka—

Jiske liye woh intezaar bhi kar lein…

Magar kabhi inkaar na karein…

Ki koi umr bhar ka vaada…

Akele hi nibha de—

Itni shiddat banne ka…

Bas ek adhura khwaab reh gaya…

Ki koi iss qadar sambhaal le mujhe,

Ki main bejijhak uske saamne bikhar saku…

Apne zakhm, apne aansu…

Be-darr khol kar dikha saku…

Bas ek khwaab reh gaya…

Ki koi gehri saansein le…

Bas mere naam ke zikr par…

Koi aankhein jhuka le… meri ek jhalak par…

Koi apna le mujhe…

Main jaisi bhi hoon—

Uljhi si… bikhri si… thukraayi si…

Bas… apna le mujhe.

Malaal rahega…

Ki itni umeedon par maine khud ko saalon zinda rakha…

Bas ek woh…

Mere dil ke sabse qareeb…

Khwaab adhura reh gaya…

Ab jo main ban jaaungi…

Iss sach ko apnane ke baad…

Shayad koi mujhe pehchaan na paaye…

Shayad unke dil mein ek khayaal aaye—

Ki kuch toh chhoot gaya hai humse…

Kuch toh kami reh gayi hai…

Kuch toh baat adhoori si reh gayi hai…

Aur phir… sawaal bhi aaye…

Par jab jawaab milne par bhi…

Koi mujhe woh pyaar dene aaye…

Aur mujhe yeh kehte paaye—

“Ab bhookh nahi hai, yaara…”

Toh shayad unhe bhi samajh aa jaaye…

Ki ek ladki thi…

Jisse woh kabhi mile the…

Uss ladki ka ek khwaab…

Aaj bhi meri hi hatheli mein dafan hai…

Aur shayad tab…

Uss masoom si ladki ko…

Thoda sa sukoon mil jaaye…

Khush hoon main…

Zindagi mein barkat bhi hogi—

Kaam… daulat… shohrat… himmat…

Aur agar yeh sab lekar bhi

Main khuda ke dar par jaaun…

Toh shayad woh muskura kar kahe—

“Tum keemat nahi chuka paogi…

Iss ek khwaab ki…”

Aur mujhe phir se… khaali haath lauta de…

Tab…

Sab kuch samet kar dil mein…

Ek ajeeb sa sukoon aa jaayega…

Ki shayad…

Meri kismat mein yeh likha hi nahi tha…

Khair… chhodo…

Zamaane mein mere paas bahut kuch hai…

Bas…

Let's say I say I love you still — say it straight to your face.

Would you bear the weight of those words again?

And if your body allows them to sit within — what then?

You'll leave the world for me? Your whole new life, its fears and desires?

And even if you do, will I be able to accept this new you —

not the one I first said "I love you" to?

And let's say we find ourselves holding hands again,

you press your lips to mine — will your body ever shake

the small, familiar fear of letting me go?

Sounds dreamy, doesn't it?

Because it is.

The aftermath: I realised I wronged you.

I realised you butchered — shat all over — my heart.

You named every bad thing you did under the bus, wearing "heartbroken" like proof.

My lie: that I wished to move on as fast as daylight.

Nothing adds up.

So, to steady a jittering nervous system and sleep before 2 a.m.,

picture me lying right beside you, my eyes on your face.

Picture me smiling — hear me whisper, I love you.

Then close your eyes. Go to bed.

They call me dramatic. They call me a crybaby. They call me unreasonable, a walking storm of suppressed anger, high-maintenance, a big-time dreamer.

And yes — I am all those things. But the beauty I hold, the beauty they see, is always painted in black ink, shadowed, negative, dull. They never look long enough to see the rest of the canvas.

So let me tell you exactly who I am — flawful, emotional, inconvenient — and still the best thing you’ll ever come across.

Yes, I’m dramatic. I’m the friend, the lover, the girl who buys you flowers and Christmas cupcakes, who does your facials for you, who cooks you meals that feel like festivals, who sings while you drive, who makes sure you get the bigger sandwich, who tries to recreate every cheesy rom-com moment because she wants your life to feel like a movie, even on a Tuesday.

And yes, I’m a crybaby. Find another love who cries the first time you wear a blue tux, who tears up just seeing you struggle, who cries at a car crash because she worries whether strangers lived, who cries even when you hurt her but still pulls you into her arms because her love is muscle memory, not performance.

Yes, I’m unreasonable. Because love has never understood math or logic. There is no “reason” for giving a boy a million chances while the world points and laughs. No logic in holding on after betrayal, in losing people you loved deeply just because something in you begged to stay loyal. There is no “sense” in proving your love after being made into a joke — and still showing up every test, every year, every time. So yes, I am unreasonable. Beautifully so.

Yes, I rage. Because I refuse to swallow injustice. I refuse to inherit my mother’s silence, to be the quiet, calm one who absorbs hurt like a sponge. I’d rather burn than shrink.

And yes — I am high maintenance. Because I maintain everyone in my life. Show me someone else keeping a friendship alive through a 13-hour time difference every single day. Show me someone who DoorDashes love across cities, who forgives ridicule, who has been betrayed by her entire chain of friends and still builds gift hampers for theirs, still takes her girls out on dates, still notices the quietest one in the room and sits beside her so she’s never alone.

Show me someone who picks flowers every morning for her mother, who tells bedtime stories to her 22-year-old sister just to give her comfort. If that makes me high maintenance, then thank God I’m not low-effort.

And yes — I’m a dreamer. A big one. I want a life bursting at the seams — bigger than what my parents imagined, bigger than what anyone who called me “basic” could ever dream up. I want a grand life where I’m a business owner and a wife, a mother and a creator, a woman who leaves wisdom behind like breadcrumbs for the ones who come after me. And I want a partner strong enough to lift my crown without ever fearing its weight.

So yes — this is me. Unapologetic. Messy. Soft. Loud. Too much and exactly enough.

Maybe I am inconvenient. Maybe I take up space, demand love, expect humanity. But trust me — I am the best deal you’ll get in a world that will eat you alive for being who you are.

the curse of my life is that things matter to me. farq padta hai. i always wanted to be loved through a lens that sees me — someone who reads the pauses between my words, someone who can hear the things I hide behind all that chatter.

but oh, what an anti-fucking-climax my life has turned into. and why wouldn’t it? i expected too much. i expected devotion. i expected to be looked after like it was written in some holy scripture. to be nurtured like i’m the last sapling on a cracked, dying coral land.

god, please— take away this ability to care so damn much. to care about whether he wished me good morning, whether he drew a smiley on my coffee cup before handing it to me. to care how every compliment begins with my body and ends—almost as an afterthought— on whatever he thinks my “inner beauty” is.

this materialistic, hollow, fucking world. this place that dresses itself in want and calls it love.

I’m trying to cross a rope bridge;

It’s 26 years old, weak and creaks.

I look down and I see sharp edges; glass shards;

Blood from my former adolescent;

And the potential to break every bone in my body.

But I try to cross it every now and then,

With trembling feet and a drumming heartbeat

I walk over my broken dreams; superficial love stories; unworked projects;

Unlived realities.

I think It’s almost important that I fall off;

And the bridge breaks into pieces;

For me to understand

That all this bridge is; is a half-fix;

It’s glued together with paper glue.

These shards will have to cut through my skin and my organs;

I will have to weep like a widow over my own death.

It is not until I fall;

that I will be able to build a brand new life.

You know how they say,

“It all turns to shit before it can all get better”.

I can see the ropes losing grip; and I don’t stop walking.

I can see the valley below my feet; at a distance.

I can sense my bones getting stronger;

And my heart getting stone-ed;

Preparing for my fall.

These rope bridges,

No matter how much we avoid walking them; we have to.

Because our destiny is to walk over them back and forth.

We can try and quick-fix;

But the bridge wants us to fall;

Only then are we brave enough to walk it;

Without it breaking.

I have apologised—

for daring to begin a silly game without you.

I have stitched excuses for your absence

with the torn fabric of my own dreams.

I have whispered “yes”

while my bones screamed “no.”

I have fought my mother,

stolen minutes from her love

to gift you my hours.

For crumbs of kindness;

I have emptied my lungs,

breath after fragile breath,

while you stood by—

watching me choke,

mirroring your own cruelties.

I have walked myself home,

tears drying like salt scars,

after you abandoned me

on an unfeeling street.

I have watched you smile

among borrowed faces

that will never know your shadows.

For crumbs of kindness;

I have swallowed half-apologies,

clung to promises woven from smoke,

and cradled your hatred

as though it were affection.

For crumbs of kindness;

I have lain beneath others,

a body without a voice.

I have clapped with trembling hands

while my chest caved in with sobs.

I have listened to their sermons,

every word a nail

hammered into the coffin

empty out all the heaviness; in my chest.

Until I understood

That I’ll have to share your heart.

Share it with people you love,

With the small spaces they’ve carved within you.

I’ll have to share the place

Where there’s her,

And her memories,

Lingering like shadows on a sunlit wall.

I want it all to myself.

I don’t want to share it with her.

But I know—

I never held it whole.

And that truth cuts through me,

As sharp as the wind that wears the cliffs,

As relentless as waves crashing against the shore,

Always wanting more, but never reaching.

When god wrote me,

He erased your name from being mine.

He kept us until you find your line.

Even though he’d wanted us to be divine;

Deep down I knew all the love was going to be hers; and all the damage mine.

But I guess, that’s completely fine.

He wrote me so I could show and teach people love,

So they could love the ones they were destined to find.

While I try to contain my heart and mind.

I didn’t mind the wounds, nor the scars.

because in my heart the frame of time was long stopped.

Iced coffee or hot chocolate?

His hands or his eyes?

---

Does she cook you pasta and a little bit extra of everything special she cooks to let you have a taste?

Does she also write you anniversary emails and buy a never-dying lily, a promise that her love will endure through time?

Does she let you take advantage of her, at the expense of her heart, just to let you feel loved in the language you prefer?

Does she write you handwritten notes, pouring her soul into a book that you can treasure, a testament to her devotion?

You have the perfect golden heart hair clip, don’t you? To gift her? Did you present it, or did you discard it along with my admiration?

Does she strive to be better for you, day and night, while you turn a deaf ear to her silent wants?

Does she nurture you, guiding you to become a better man, even if it’s just now and then?

Do you find her weeping, struck by the sight of you in a blue tux for the first time?

Does she send endless pictures, messages that flirt with the dawn, each one a thread in the tapestry of your affection?

How many mistakes has she forgiven, how many sorrows forgotten, to weave the fabric of your bond?

Is she anything like me, or the complete opposite, a mirror reflecting a life untouched?

Do you catch glimpses of my essence in a fleeting thought or a lingering glare?

Do you remember how my lips felt on your neck when she tries to draw you close?

And if I slip into your mind, do you drown me out with kissing her harder and carving her name onto your lips?

Do you grieve for us as I have grieved?

Please tell me she’s nothing like me.

She can be everything you ever wished for, but tell me she’s not me, and tell me you’re happy.

Tell me so I can stop grieving, stop believing you ever loved me.

Love returns in whispers, in fleeting glimpses, through the course of life.

Tell me you never catch a glimpse of me, so I can erase my traces from your mind, heart, and soul—

and find solace in the silence of your forgetting.

The internet’s killing love, it seems,

Turning hearts into cold machine dreams.

Sunflowers flood the endless feed,

But white lilies are what my heart truly needs.

Matcha’s praised by the masses loud,

I’ll pass—too grassy, far too proud.

Opinions shaped, not by our mind,

But by algorithms, we’re all confined.

I’ve letters stashed in an old cookie jar,

Your words—my souvenirs from afar.

Romance was once in what we’d write,

Now it’s lost in digital light.

When will we stop this scripted play?

She’s stuck between no network zone; in this world that is now a wireless one.

Her soul is lost indefinitely.

She’s hunting for commoners who would still intertwine and get wired in her life.

She’s the girl who would step up to detangle a person out of their misery.

But people here, they don’t need saving; They need a strong Bluetooth.

Can someone tell her this isn’t 2016? People here don’t do attachments anymore.

Everything is on cloud; storage can be bought at a dime.

Batteries operate all separately. Togetherness has ceased to exist.

She finds herself amongst atoms that know how to make bonds and whom not to interact with. She doesn’t have to get awkward.

She should abandon romanticizing breakdown next to her shoulder people; it’s not a new promise it’s a goodbye.

Who’s going to tell her that people don’t sit in buses and share music anymore?

Who’s going to break it to her that the one she’s with will never understand her soul because he has moved on?

Who’s going to shake her out of her rom-com and finally experience the grey reality around her?

She is still in hopes that she will stumble someone who will be just like her, and they will talk themselves out of this reality. They will build a bubble and float in that feeling.

She’s searching souls in this anxiety driven shockwaves kind of beings full of extremism.

Can someone please break her heart already?

Can someone lend her a shoulder to recite her life on?

She’s sick of seeing 2-year warranty periods. She wants to land up with a Nokia N72 that will still work the same in 2050.

Why do I become more wrong by each passing moment,

Why does my heart lose meaning by each day

Why do I eyes get dry despite having a ocean to let out

I am so anxious it could kill me alive

I am in pain *****

And you’re putting me here

You’re breaking me apart a bit too much

I might end up dying

My eyes keep burning and tearing up like a never ending cycle

This one hurt way too much *****, way too much. I don’t have poetry to write,

I would cry myself to sleep but it's monotonous.

So now I dance with my shadows, and verse lines with my alternate realities.

I've heard there's about a million more of me somewhere.

I can affirm four living in my brain.

One's a life in which I got you; we dance, we glance at each other in a never ending love song.

we twirl and define our abrupt consciousness. And you weep for me each night, and we lock arms under the moon. And everyday is like the very first time you laid eyes on me as I was yours.

One's a life in which I have lost you; I work and work till my eyes gutter.

I cash in pay cheques my speech slurs and stutters. And I hate cats now; because their vivid galaxy eyes remind me of you. I hate dissecting my food and feelings Infront of anybody.

One's a life in which I have fame; it's dull under all of my glitter gowns. I have moments where I feel wanted and it is in those moments where my urge to disappear from the face of the earth begins.

There's a life, one more;

in which who I am, I'm not quite sure.

Maybe it's my only conscience that lives as an original to greet your eyes.

And I never know whom to be, and what to smile. It's the most painful one so far. I hate mirrors in this one, I only reflect what your eyes tell me to do.

Sometimes I aspire to be the girl of your dreams, but sometimes I wish we were no more.

(than friends)

As I dance, and dance;

The moon cannot keep up and wishes to sleep.

I fall asleep too, it's like sliding from a hollow hole so steep.

And regain myself each mornings to swoon.