He would rather,

Nestle in her tranquil smile,

Let her soft fingertips,

Trace his jawline,

Than sit with me,

On the thorny ground,

And pick up

My broken pieces,

Buring his nails

In the coarse dirt

And the soot

From my bleeding soul;

I blame him,



The magnet that is you,

Hauls off me,

Metallic peels,

Until there’s nothing of me

Left for me;

Waging war,

Against myself,

I battle,

To keep my pieces intact,

But they fight me,

And soar to you,

To be an inconvenience,

At your feet.

Collateral Damage

As they hustle along,

To find their homes,

Carry boulders,

To strengthen their walls,

Leap beyond,

To fill their souls,

They knock you down,

Though you weren’t in their way,

Smash pieces of rocks,

On your gut,

Tread on your heart,

And never look back;

Do they ever wonder,

If you got back on your feet?

Do they remember

Whose blood painted their worlds?


The Friend

The friend,

Who was meant to stand,

Right next to you,

On doomsday;

The friend,

Whom you’d heat needles with,

Stitch up each other’s wounds,

Through the blood and the tears;

The friend,

Whom you’d sit with,

In a bar, drinking away,

The battle scars;

The friend,

Who’d hold you,

In a steady embrace

Your safe haven, during quakes;

The friend,

Whose happiness

You’d have killed for,

Ripped out your lungs for;

The friend,

Who stabbed you,

In fear, of you, meaning to him,

As much as him to you.



It was he,

Who sat on ‘our’ couch,

With her

Around his neck;


It was me,

Who felt disdain

Run through my veins,

Infecting my heart, crippling my motion;


It was he,

Who stared down at me,

Like I was a harlot,

Claiming to have been raped;


Yet why is it me,

Who is stooping my head,

Tears in my eyes,

And begging for his forgiveness?