#blotchedprompt

What else did you expect?

Thanks for the prompt @blotched-poems

To the girl who tries to be strong everyday,

You are doing it right. You always show to everyone that you are fighting hard after breaking down a million times, as if nothing's wrong, as if you do not need anyone's help. You are fighting hard to be the person everyone wants and expects you to be, and it is okay with you, they have never heard you complain.

You're a woman with a big and beautiful heart. You are fighting battles you can't even discuss with anyone because you do not want to be a burden. You try to be strong and help everyone when you, yourself, is helpless, you give encouragement to those who need it when you, yourself, need it the most. You always put other people first and they don't even notice it. You have told yourself that you have no right to rest and that you have to always fight for those you love, at all cost.

Brave heart, I want you to know that God is seeing the narrative of your life. He sees every tears you wipe before you step out of your room and smile like you weren't crying yourself to sleep last night. He sees how hard you try to be alright in front of those you love but you are dying to cry your heart out. He sees how heavy your chest is, He sees how much you bear the pain. He hears your silent cries, He knows you are afraid everytime people would ask you what's happening and you won't find the right answers.

Beloved, I want you to know that it is okay to not be okay. It is okay to rest and give yourself space from everything that is tearing you apart. It is okay to pause and breathe for a while.

So take heart, woman.

You are making us proud.

my body, involuntarily starts

moving, rather clumsily, to

the tunes of Imagine Dragons,

as if inviting the devils,

who had spent their midnight hours

chasing me, to jump

ropes with me, this morning.

Telling them that, though

they have me by the neck

most of the times, on some days, I

can still wriggle

out of their clutches,

Come, my love, as i strung my fingers on my untuned guitar that my father gave me when i was sixteen. As i play to you some random songs from your messy playlist that seem unnoticed, because i know deep too well how you care less to music.

Come, my love, as your head begun to jerk, and my shoulders shrunk unto an unusual load of happiness and contentment that you can only seem to give; like how your hands interlock with mine, entwining it with so much joy and euphoria. Come, as i slid myself into that moment, with you, never wanting to have an end.

Come, my love, as we go deeper and deeper of our love; the thing that we have. The thing that we share under every mask of unshaded moonlit sky. The thing that make us alive for a quite little span of time.

Come, as we knew it's ending. As you slowly wake up from sleeping peacefully on my shoulders and as you eventually lose grip when you finally made sense to reality.

Come, as it's almost sunrise, and you need to let go.

Come, as i left here with the moon and hope of nothingness.

As you bid your "good bye and see you soon".

Come, my love, would you still?

'Coz I've been waiting for you for so long...

-s.b // come, my love

 And then sometimes I think, did they have a sense of belonging and family because they didn't have words to hide the truth. Did the absence of words and language make them better than us at loving each other? Their language was their body. 

I believe, a hug, a kiss, a squeeze on the shoulder, holding someone, being held, having fingers run through the hair, these actions that we call 'motherly' or 'romantic' feel so special because they are primitive. They are the language we all had before we learnt to feel it through words.  

love. i never liked the phrase i love you. love is an epiphany. it can’t possibly be summarised in three short words.

it often blooms in silence.

i smell it when i come home and momma’s cooking my favourite meal.

i see it in poppa's eyes when momma's singing.

i hear it in cristin miloti's la vie en rose.

i feel it when my sister offers to use me as a guinea pig for her makeup experiments.

i sense it in vulnerable 3 am conversations.

i feel it in the echoes of song recommendations.

i'm engulfed by it when i put on my sister's old clothes.

i feel it behind poppa's lectures of hard work and health.

i swallow it with poppa's numerous healthy drinks.

i see it in that dog's wink my best friend sends me.

i hear it in momma's ghazals on sleepless nights.

i feel it when poppa kisses my forehead while im sleeping.

i feel it beating through my veins.

sometimes, stronger than often.

and in those times, i feel like flying.

no. i AM flying.

young me was always scared i'd never feel this.

to her, i just wanna say: