deewaani

the guilt won’t float away

with your roaring pride,

it will sink deeper than

the furtive tattoos on your sleeve,

you won’t find a love that lasts,

but an idea of what it should resemble

with wring your brain juice out

on the red velvet rug you always wanted,

you will lose sleep in your own bed,

wishing you were someone else tonight,

you will never be comfortable in a different skin,

same as when you were 17,

indifferent to things that kill you,

slowly yet fastly, consuming you all at once

What is love made of,

if not, stained shirts

and bleeding lips?

Your touch burns through my soul,

Pacify me with your love.

Your bites form an orchard on my skin,

Blood gushes through me like pomegranate

juice dribbling from your lips.

You pick me apart,

flicking seeds to the side,

clawing to the centre.

It’s spring, to say,

but my palms are peeling

under the pressure of cool water,

like flaking paint on neglected walls.