#spilled everything

My love for you is just like the weather. It changes based on the seasons we go through. But it will only ever get more intense.

As the leaves colour change and shades us rain or shine. I know that I want to be with you in all times.

Every storm you feel coming is another profession of my love. It will never go away.

The part That keeps all your air And the part That cages your beast Is the part That makes sure it is guarded From the part Of my predatorial feast

The part You bare with your hands When you lift a part Of your tee So the part Is laid for the taking And a part Of your breast I can see

The part That's a wedge for my fingers Is the part Where my lingering lips Kiss the part Just below your heaving Till a part of them Reaches your hips

When Franz Kafka said;

“It would be better if you didn’t come, since you’d only have to leave again.”

But our very own Ahmed Faraz wrote;

The water does not cleanse. It only holds the weight of what I refuse to name, a sterile porcelain basin mirroring a fractured face while the taps bleed cold, unyielding truth.

I am kneeling at the edge of my own undoing, surrender shaped like a broken vow. If I drink the cup, my throat will catch on glass; if I set it down, the silence becomes a blade.

My chest is hollowed out, a cathedral echoing with the ghosts of things I swore I’d bury. Every breath is heavy, dragging against the ribs like rusted anchors pulled through salt and blood.

There is no mercy in the architecture of this room,just white tiles and the relentless drip, drip, drip marking the seconds I spend unraveling, waiting for a hand to reach through the dark, or for the dark to finally pull me under.

The steam rises like false absolution, blurring the mirror until I am nothing more than a blurred outline, a ghost haunting the edges of a body that no longer feels like home.

I trace the scars of old conversations along my thighs, mapping out the geography of every time I broke myself to fit your hands, wondering when sacrifice became synonymous with slow drowning, and why I keep holding my head beneath the surface.

Do you hear the quiet fracture underneath the floorboards? 

It is the sound of every promise rotting in the dark, heavy and sodden with the weight of unsaid things, rotting away beneath the pristine surface of my survival.

If I let go of the porcelain rim right now, would I finally learn how to sink without panic, or would I just drift forever in this lukewarm purgatory, waiting for a god who stopped listening long ago?

The water finally drains, leaving behind only the stark, chalky rings of a storm I survived alone, the sudden, sharp chill of open air rushing in to fill the space where the drowning used to be.

I stand up, heavy limbed and shivering, and watch my own reflection sharpen in the glass unbroken, unclaimed by your shadow, breathing in the quiet gravity of a heart that beats entirely for me.

Like the echoes of my abyss have hushed to hear something as potent as the temporal farce of my heartbeat.

I can hear it.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Each thud a porous plea to the delirium of my blessed mortality.

I cannot articulate the dread beyond my blackening flesh; the screeches of violence or the silence of condemn.

I can feel it.

The relentless pounding of a body outworn by its decomposing host.

A host so vulnerable to the poison of her making.

A host so vulnerable to the poison of her harvest.

A host so vulnerable to the poison of her own flourish.

Sometimes I feel quiet.

Those times I cannot prefer a more comforting corner than the screeches of my silence.