Tag Archives: hurt

Razbliuto.

We’re at crossroads. Thousands of vehicles with their incessant honking and blaring lights pass us by. But I guess that’s how it always has been: you running your hand through my hair, and laughing when it gets stuck, laughing that loud throaty laugh that is so dissimilar to your grunts and growls and your hands stuck on my face that changes my life and realigns my priorities every time it happens. You and I, standing at the crossroads waiting for the other to move.

I’ve always disguised my feelings for you, arguing with myself every time I do that. You ought to know how I feel, you ought to know how you make me feel. But I just can’t and it breaks me. I guess that’s why I’m an actor, after all. My performances transfer from stage to screen to life, just to entertain. You, them, everyone. So I keep mum. I show off a mask. A cold, iron mask. Fire can’t burn me till I’ve got my mask. So what if I’m burning from inside? As long as noone sees it. And I keep mum, and laugh at old jokes, and cry when it’s expected, and get angry when it’s appropriate.

I remember being love struck the first time I met you. I was 18, and you were 20. I was in my sundress and you looked like you rolled out of a black and white photograph, with your hair all tousled, in your grey tee, and your black jeans, and your leather jacket carelessly just put around your shoulders, holding a cigarette in your mouth, smirking at nothing in particular, as you lean against the wall. Damn, I remember thinking, you’ll be the Delilah to my Samson. I didn’t know then that I’ll tire out of your cigarette burnt lips and your ash-ridden tongue. I didn’t know that you’d quit smoking just for me.

I didn’t know that it’d be your face I see the first thing every birthday for the next five years, and I didn’t know that it’d be your hands that steady me every time I fall. I didn’t know that it’d be your eyes that motivate me to work harder- how they light up every time I crack a joke, or darken every time my character kisses another, or how they start swimming in unshed tears everytime my character dies- and no award, no recognition ever ever motivates me as much as those do- grey orbs floating their way through a crowd of faces, before settling for mine.

But I guess that’s why I break every time you touch me. That’s probably why my heart beats faster when I see you staring at my face in a crowd. I guess that’s why my throat elicits a cacophony every time I see your lips narrow. It’s because I know what will happen when we reach home.

I don’t know why, how, or when. But I fell for your lies and your excuses. And I cannot tear myself away from you. And when that popular magazine called us the couple of the year, I don’t know why I accepted those thorny roses from you. That’s what it was- our relationship: thorns with a couple of roses stitched together, and that’s all everyone saw. Beautiful roses. But I and only I saw the deadly thorn in between.

So I tell myself that the next time we meet again, I will tell you. I will not let words unspoken or be understood in silence. I will tear away my mask and end up shattered, body, soul and all. I will not let your hard fingers ruin my mascara, or even touch my face. I will not let you leave fingerprints on my face, and I will not let you kill me from the inside out. Because baby, I’m a shipwreck, and you are my constant distraction.


Empire of Dirt.

“What have I become 
My sweetest friend? 
Everyone I know goes away 
In the end”

– Hurt, Johnny Cash

 

Remember those times we built castles in the air? We dreamt of submarines, and princesses? Of being a Marvel Superhero, and fighting monsters. Of shiny swords, heroes, and white horses? Remember those times we chose to be brave and reckless, instead of calculating and clever? Remember those times we stared into the night sky just to see how stars twinkled? And how we knew how love is everything that’s good and pure? 

And now know how we build castles around ourselves? Brick walls of safety people have been trying to break for years, and we kept rebuilding slowly, as defenses against intruders? Each event ricocheting like bullets through these walls, acting like little holes bringing in rain and sunshine and noise from the outside world. You’re trying to peep out, and they are, it seems, not bothering to see through them.

It sometimes feels like it’s okay to be alone and not to be loved. It feels like it’s okay to struggle with people and their new, flashy toys. It feels like all you have for yourself is a glass palace. A kaleidoscopic illusion of harmony. While they stay happy with their beauty and prettiness, we are happier with indifference towards aesthetics, and hardened instincts against evolutionary concepts of perfections. We are happier with comfort of our sneakers, against their princessy six-inch shoes. We are eager for the next installment of our favourite book series to be out- waiting in line for hours, and not scream at the gym-sculpted body of the actor who plays the protagonist we have already loved. We are happier with our tee and jeans, while they dress up in their short dresses and bracelets. We find comfort in our bed, while they choose to lie in a dumpster after a late night at parties. And yet, they think it is you who needs a heavy dose of ‘lighten up, mahn, you’re a teenager’

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And we almost fall for it, and try to emulate by going for parties (and choosing to drink water), dressing up (in coloured pants and a tunic), and feeling alone in a crowd. We try to find dolled-up celebrities ‘hawt,’ and fail miserably. We end up trying to act as if reading is for nerds, but can’t survive a day without it. And that’s when parties mean sitting in a corner and observing people, and dressing up means putting comfort before straining your body.

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And then they think you’re maladjusted, and sucking the fun out of the party. But you know there is nothing better thank listening to people and understanding them. There is nothing better than observing people and wondering what makes them want to provoke other people while dancing. There is nothing better than waiting for that tiny squeak in their voices, and figuiring out that they have not indeed moved on, contrary to what they might think. 

Because we are all hurt, from within. Our souls are scarred and that’s what makes us human. Our hearts have been broken, and that’s what’s making us tick. So, maybe your parents didn’t really want you, and yet took you in. Maybe they didn’t want you, and they gave you up. Either way it hurts both way. Or maybe your extended family hates you. Or, probably your parents died because of a drunken driver.Or maybe you just can’t make friends. Or you have no friends you could turn to at 3 A.M. Or your favourite Game of Thrones character died. Or you talk aloud to yourself because you just want to hear a human voice. Or your fictional crush just isn’t real, and yes, it is absolutely frustrating that your soulmate isn’t real.

 So, yes, everyone goes away in the end. And we’ve become somebody other than what we’ve expected to be. We have been hurt by expectations-our own as well as theirs. (And so have they.) And they will let us down, and crumble our dreams and humiliate us. And they will break promises and crush our soul. And we will try to not feel, and conceal, because the cold never bothered us, anyway. 

 

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A Delicate String of Pearl

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I walked away with a million words unsaid
A fire within me, of betrayal, of fear, of loss
Your every want drawing me back into you
And I dance to your effortless tune

You looked at me with a thousand splendid suns
Your eyes of hope, trust, and knowledge
My every need tugging a string of your heart
And you sing our song in the valleys of our past

You lead me on like the sun drawing the earth
I oblige, as I defer from my judgement
Intuition calling me on, as you attend to me
And I antagonise my world for you.

For all the Christmases past, you say
I’m the best gift you’ve never received
You carve those words up onto my heart
And I listen intently and believe faithfully.

You are the Hot Cocoa of my late Sunday Morning
I burn myself as I strive to get drunk on you
The scars you leave me with ache for days
And I refuse to heal

You’re my sunshine, my only sunshine
The fireworks on a moonless night sky
You bask in my reflecting glory
And I let you in, a fantasy.

For when the days are cold, and the nights terrifying
I sing you to sleep, as you hug me
Your touch soothing me, healing me
And you love me.

Since it’s Valentine’s Week and all that jazz, I thought I should do something for the hitherto unattended blog.
Here’s the deal: I shall post a poem-Original, or otherwise everyday till the next Saturday.

Today’s is an original.
Let me know what you think!
Read, Review, Share. 😀
Twitter: @Wallflowerblack
Email: theblackwallflower@gmail.com