For

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,

Not.

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Home.

 

The embrace that held,

All my pieces intact;

The hand that clasped,

My fingers, compact;

My ground that never swayed,

While I swirled, abstract,

You were my home;

 

A cast away now,

I wander,

Aimless,

A vagabond,

Who lays her head down,

As shelter comes her way,

Closes her eyes,

Into a restless drowse;

Be on her way,

Before the dawn breaks,

No matter how,

The blisters

In her soles, bled.

As History Repeats…

On a Saturday evening,

On a black couch,

History repeated.

 

It was the same couch,

Around the same time,

The same you,

 

Except in my place,

Wasn’t me,

But one reformed than me.

 

Behind a glass,

With a heart-lost chest,

Was I.

 

Standing there,

Watching the smiles,

Screaming tears.

 

You wouldn’t turn back,

You couldn’t see me,

Or sense beyond your rainbows.

 

Where I was,

Was dark.

Noisy. Crowded with shadows.

 

Where I was,

Was a place in between

Your past and my present.

 

Where I was,

Was a groundless marsh,

Between memories and reality.

 

Where I was,

Was a wavy ocean,

Of stark choice and ambivalence.

 

Where I was,

I couldn’t break the glass,

And enter the past,

 

Where I am,

I dare not walk in,

Through the shattered glass.

Trap

 

One step further,

He said,

Holding out his hand to me,

Few steps ahead of me;

I walked,

Along his lead,

Then leaped,

And fell,

Head before heels;

He stood,

By the brink,

Still holding my hand;

 

I clung, on to him,

Trying to pull him, along.

The grip tightened,

He struggled,

To break free,

He loosened,

His arm,

And watched,

As I dropped,

Deep into a pit,

Of muck and thorns,

Crippled.

 

Still,

He peeps by,

As I try to heave,

My breath;

Soon,

He’ll stop,

Lurking by;

Soon,

I’ll stop,

Feeling myself.

 

 

She

I imagine,

That she has sparkling eyes,

That showers you with mystery,

She knows the key

To all that you lock inside,

She has a smile,

That dampens your rough-edged days,

Her wings, humongous and made of steel,

So you feel safe to leave

Your dreams, at her feet.

 

I guess,

That she has well-manicured nails,

Painted with hot, steamy red,

She walks and talks with sublime airs,

That makes your knees shake,

Knows how to pick her wardrobe right,

What goes with what and whatnot,

That she’s the image of perfection,

That you forget how to breathe,

When she’s by your side.

 
I hope,

That she holds you tight,

When you aren’t too sure, where you stand,

That she knows exactly what to say,

When the ground seems to quake beneath your feet,

That she’s worth the blood of the heart you broke,

That they redeem your soul

Off the friend you butchered.