OCEAN BOUND

today, mama said- home is important to you, isn’t it? and i screamed, home is a person. he is a person, and he is everything. everything there is. everything, at all. 

listen- when i say mess, i mean i cannot keep myself from tearing pages out of my notebooks, because my handwriting is terrible. i cannot draw in them, because i didn’t learn how, and listen- everything always has to be perfect; because, you see, you don’t hold on to messy things/ugly things/dirty things- but i am all of them, doused in want; the ugliest thing of all. listen- when i say mess, i mean i want to be loved in messiest of ways, but i don’t know what that means, because all i’ve truly felt is longing. all i’ve done, is fall apart, in the most ungraceful way possible; time and time again. listen- when i say mess, i mean i want to tuck away all the little flying strands of my hair, straighten my shirt, and stand tall. i want to speak words of eloquence without pauses but my brain isn’t as fast as my mouth so inevitably, i’ll end up with the worst kind of words in my mouth, without a way to hold them in. listen- when i say mess, i mean my heart is too big for its own good, and my body cannot carry its weight on most days; is it too much to ask for a little help? am i only worthy of something if i put myself back together myself? listen- when i say mess, i mean i don’t want to be ashamed anymore; of who i am, or who i’ve been in the past anymore. i want to be unashamed of my want, or of all the love i carry; let me wear it on my chest like a badge, even if i breakdown every few minutes. let me hold the ugliness of my thoughts in the pages of my notebooks, without the urge to tear them out. let me be unafraid to draw; not everything has to be beautiful to exist, or to be loved- let that be me, for once. let that be. let me be. let it be- i’m tired of not being seen. listen- when i say mess, i’m talking about myself; but that isn’t a bad thing. 

maybe an elegy, for all the people i was. or for all the people i loved-i am a  messy thing; that hasn’t changed/i was jealous. i am jealous of all that wasn’t mine[it couldn’t have been] someone said bird, and i let my heart fly/another- he said meet me at the intersection of our parallel lines, and i thought, i would walk into running traffic for him. i am a messy thing; feral, and hungry/want rules me. even now, i weave dreams about the time i said love in every word i wrote. i still do. i still want to say i love you, but there isn’t a place for that anymore. i want to say that i hate the time i found pieces of other birds weaved in your hair. i want to say, i will wait on the intersection; come. come. come. please. but i will not/yelling to a void, isn’t the same as opening your chest/all i have is teeth.

[in its truest form...]                                           i drown myself. here is an excavation,                                    [on display. as i do best} in piece by piece detail. almost every time, i tear open a sea or an ocean to find a sort of half satisfactory salvation. a half-empty promise to you, or myself; a half-empty attempt to love in its truest form. one where i do not drown. i am not the titanic. you are not an iceberg. i am not sinking;  i am disappearing in the half-truths of my identity crisis. [oh me? i love the way fresh fish tastes at the back of my throat. oh, the scales are my favourite part] the fluidity of my perceptiveness is a superpower, i cannot wish upon anyone. i leave my body, constantly [can you call it astral projecting when your soul refuses to recognise you? is it levitating if your body doesn’t call you back?] to be something beyond myself- let me please you. please let me please you.                 [i am worthy of everything. am i not? i am not. am i?] i am more than i give. than i show. that i say. than i scream. than i choose to believe. i tell you about my favourite things, because passion rules me, but- you are my favourite passion. you are the dream. you are the sea. the ocean. the lake. again, the sea... and so i drown myself. i cannot resist a water body. HERE IS MY DREAM / IN ITS TRUEST FORM.

i speak of truth, only in silence- wordless, the points of origin jump ahead in this timeline, and morph into myths. here is my favourite; i have loved, in blooming, and changing, and re-making myself. i have loved, without eyes, and ears, and limbs. i have loved, as the season changed to spring, then summer, then the coldest winter of all-                                  expectation-less.  the trees lay barren/forming leaves, crystalline in nature, as i weave pieces, trying to intertwine lives from two winters ago; the truth is, i have changed you, just as you have, me. the truth is, that sometimes people aren’t who they seem. sometimes people are too scared to be themselves, and other times, too wildly unaware of reality; we were two such people. those were three such winters. i am warm, from the weight of my blanket. it doesn’t get cold where you are. the winds are currently westward. i breathe better when i dream. i eat peaches when i think about sunshine. my hands feel serene. FALLING IN, AND OUT OF THE POOL, THROUGH THE SEASONS.

something flips- i drown myself in ice-cold water, to feel something other than the empty spaces in my body. my body, a home that’s ghost town, blooming garden, lost city all in one. my body, with a heart so easy to eat/please/leave-never complete; a heart that barely holds itself together. i am all love, till you really love me [what a monster] i am all dear moon/ocean/flower till the sun begins to shine and you dream of me in your bed. i am all lets go for a ride till i drive, and crash the car into a tree; on purpose.  something slips- and i find myself barely breathing. you see filling empty spaces feels nice till a hand finds your neck and squeezes too hard. you see, the heart that broken before it could form isn’t one you can put back. you see love only smells nice when you’re ready; maybe you’re never ready. you see i have these dreams- they speak a language i’ve never heard. they smell like lilles, and i want to jump, i want to kneel, and pray for them to be real. you see, the thing is, i’ve never been based in reality.  everything sounds so sweet till you put it in your mouth.

[de (t) ached]-                        i speak of something between you and a thought that looks remarkably similar. between the two, i lay, half hanging from a window; always reaching for something that breaks my back-  i always write about hunger, in ways of urgency, and destruction; i talk about myself the same, instead, the hunger consumes me in more ways than i can admit- a body that says “you don’t want to touch me” a mouth that swallows even a spec of blood. skin, that shivers at the thought of a touch, and a stomach to harbour it all. [i am but a work in progress; i don’t know what you are- maybe an idea of what’s to come, or maybe my last lesson] - but see, habits are made to be broken, and the heart is an always mending thing; i am colder than i seem / than i was / than i mean- i am bolder, to say i do not know if i have loved. i do not know if i have lived with more than words in my chest. i am older to know the difference.-                      [but see, i am no better than i was yesterday] but see, this is a story, of my beginnings. a story where i find myself or a part of me at least, that tells me i am home; the only issues is everything feels like home till it doesn’t. and i always have my diving stance in place / i always have my running shoes on.  [i am sorry to have made you a calamity; i will not call myself disaster anymore] [i am sorry to have become a lesson, than the oddity you wanted me to be.] [i am sorry that every beginning needs an ending, and that i need self-developing] i am sorry for all the breaking; pieces of us are yet to have healed.   [there seems to be a dislodged piece of me, or maybe healing requires some heartlessness, or maybe, baby we’re all just dreaming- there’s no softness here / where is my tender?] i’m half hanging from a window, with all this romanticism making it harder to breathe. [my] love- you’re making it harder to believe / i’ve got to leave. HEARTLESS

writing; not like it used to be. not riddled in metaphors- i wonder if that’s a metaphor for me, somehow. now, a little more naked to the very skin i have tried to hide. this time, a little more literal show, don’t tell. don’t hide. i haven’t tried this in a while- a sort of  confessional; a self-portrait, where i’m trying to find a version of myself i  can like, or live with for the next  few years. till another heartache/heartbreak- time to change my hair/lost another piece of myself. it’s alright, i will survive like the song. i cried for a while/tried  to love a boy whose eyes reminded me of the one before him. and another one, whose voice said my name, like a war cry [it sounded so good, i got lost in being wanted for a while] his smile; he said bye like a thornbird. mama handed me a book at 15; maybe one  she dreamed of. she found someone louder instead, and i am searching for tender places now- bruises are still beautiful. the softness hasn’t left; it subsides, a little scared, in a bereft state, but it's fine. i’m fine.  my flesh, a little hungry still, and that mouth- that feral fucking mouth, that doesn’t quiet down. you see- i will drown, yet again, for the sound of another prayer. i will tear open myself again on the altar of  vulnerability; only, there is no urgency in me.  i will not speak of another dream; they always do start sweet. i will not scream. i will not breathe- do not touch me/touch me, i want to feel. [i don’t want to feel.]