Redemancy (II)

 it feels like jumping into an empty pool. my hair feels filthy and i can't breathe. i wish i could remove the fucking feel of your hands from my hair.

Remember the time when you felt so guilty that you fucked it out of you. or how when i couldn't stop shaking 

and you made 

it
a 

    point

   /reality 

so that

                      i couldn't     move. 

 i like the way water tastes on my skin these days. my eyes feel clearer. a fraction less salty and something that i didn't force down my throat. it's not like i miss your lips or your neck or your eyes or your hair or your laugh; your frown and your tears. your ridiculous height, and petty fights. good riddance really. why the fuck did it feel so real. when i can see you laughing with her and it's not at all like crawling in shrapnel. it's like drowning in it. the pool wasn’t empty.

my stomach protests everything these days. 

it's not funny i say. it's not funny. stop laughing. please stop laughing. please stop loving me. you promised you'd stay.

Redemancy (I)

In the shadow of your silhouette, under the orchard, we cry tears of burning madness, our souls intertwine. You caressed me in places words never could and your eyes spoke volumes when kisses never could.

I lay in a mess now, crying in places we laughed, back when we'd hold each other because we couldn't bemoan alone. We fell apart in the most beautiful way, however torturous, however ghastly; as your fingers worked magic and spilled love at times our voices wavered.

You had asked me once what I thought of the moon, of this world, of this life, of you; and I had answered by pouring all my love into your eyes, into that look— the one that you claimed would drive you fucking insane. And it did. And you tripped. And I stayed. And we fell apart like the pearls of a necklace that had been barely hanging by the thread; one of love, care, intimacy, devotion, and all the things that this world has ever craved of.

Maybe it was in the way that we held each others' gaze for a second too long, or maybe it was how we fell asleep in the vineyard with nothing but our lonely, naked souls draped in longing. Perhaps it was the tragedy that you knew it was the last chance, our last chance, to drink in each others' moans; to profess our mortal love for one another; to worship and avow, to ourselves and to this world.

Because you tore me open afterward, and you devoured me while I was holding myself together. Again, and again, and again. Right until the moment where my breathing would turn desperate, my hands feverishly gnawing at each and every inch of my skin you had marked, as I would be left alone to drown myself in the musk scent from the bedsheet. To pick up my own shattered shreds which would cut me long after you would've left, and to clean up the now-black blood which would be smearing my chest. And oh so abstrusely.

I could see blue: everywhere, every place, every minuscule of space and time that you had caressed; every fragment of my existence that you had tainted. I swear anyone could have seen me learning to lick up the blood off the edge of the knife when no one tipped it down my tongue, whilst I tried not to choke on the shovels you shoved down my throat.

Strangers with Memories

I still remember that summer night, when your gaze felt like Fiendfyre and all that mattered was my face nuzzled against your shoulder, and for a moment it felt like perhaps breathing wasn't so hard after all.

The walls of my apartment still smell like cheap whites- the ones you always had in the left pocket of your black leather jacket. And the entanglement of our limbs and the stench of your cologne still surrounds me in nightmares. Or maybe they are fantasies, I can't quite point out the difference nowadays.

Repugnance seeps into my lungs when I'm alone because what possibly could have been the reason for you to leave me alone at the cabin along the edge of the town, when all that we agreed to were nights of lavender breeze. But then I remember how you brought me daisies when I told you it was my day of sadness. I tried to fathom why you didn't leave when I told you I couldn't give you what you wanted, I couldn't be what you wanted. I couldn't stop my eyes from watering the weeds in my heart; for when you let me lose myself in you on Saturdays because you knew I needed to weep bereft of knowing why, my cognizance got lost too. In the plethora of our morning memoirs, which now houses all sorts of creatures and I can't for the life of me kick them out. Tell me why.

Maybe numbness wasn't so bad after all.

Melancholy hits you in waves. Because explain to me what else can be the reason: why one day, I woke up and just didn't feel like throwing up at the sheer sight of me anymore. At this crumbled piece of muscle and mould that feels like nothing but an alias young girls learn to make out of their souls— to giggle and twirl around until all that is left is a snippet amidst the discarded shell that everyone frowns upon. And when all that is left to do is to sit alone with derelict cuts and gashes, and adorn them with salt-water and alcohol; 

and I think of you.

Try to help me understand if you can, why lately all I have been wanting is to rip the latex I wrote on into pieces- scrub the hands that wrote them raw- and then choke on them until either my lungs collapse or the woman across the street identifies my efforts, comes over and pushes me from my bedroom window.

Maybe it is because I've been visiting strangers' gravestones far too many times to look at my thoughts as anything more than a paste of rags and resin, which somehow slightly resembles the semblance of my mind, which I sometimes wish to swallow full.

I was sitting at the post office yesterday, on the wooden bench outside its back entrance. My wrist scraped on a nail along its seat, and all I could think of as drops of dulcet fluid dribbled from the scratch was how you always traced the veins under that patch of translucent skin with your thumb, whenever I stared a little too long at our hands.

Sometimes I can feel our memories fading, your voice drifting off, the ghost of your lips leaving my lips— my neck, my face, my hands. And I find myself wanting to hide in your arms. But then I realize that I didn't love you, and you didn't love me, and that I don’t know what was, or is, your mother's favourite food; or what was the name you used as a lover. I realize that we were, after all, strangers, and that it shouldn't make sense for my lips to quirk up around the corners every time I see blueberries.

It doesn't make sense for me to remember the poem that you wrote about the girl you loved, and how you used to wander into the woods to pluck yellow flowers because she reminded you of them.

It used to hurt at first. Now I just wonder if what I feel is anywhere near blue to what you did.

It's a kaleidoscope of hatred and disgust, of lust and pity, of bitter words and acid heartbreak, that taste to me of summer.