Winter love.

I don’t love you like I did last winter.

Last winter, we were like strangers who shared a candy floss because there was only one left. Back then we watched the fireworks believing that both of us were perfect for each other. I thought you were the only boy who could understand what my eyes said when I’d look at you. You felt like an art gallery that I’d never come across and I was so elated that I had. Last Christmas, it snowed but my heart was warm because I knew you adored me and it felt so right. My bones believed that you were the only strength I need to stand upright. So when I missed you, it felt like missing a limb. Like I can’t walk in a human manner without you. It felt like you were the Earth to me. Guessed well, I was the moon. So I wrote poems about you. About your beauty and your existence. I wrote of how much we loved and how much it pained to not be beside you. Of how much it hurt when you wouldn’t say what was on your mind or of how much you loved the other girl. She was beautiful, intelligent, independent, affectionate, and obviously miraculous. To keep my heart in the light, I lit a matchstick and I asked myself to get my shit together and sat on the porch and buried my face In the pillow I carried along so that I could write of your love all over again.

But the winter is here again. I’m sorry if this sounds harsh. I’m sorry if you have to read this. But I do not apologise for the human I have made out of me. I will eat candy floss and fiercely remember how we ate ours together, maybe I’d even wish you were here, although, it’s completely alright if you can’t. We’ve been together for long and you need your space as well.

I was gullible and you were all of my space. I’m happy that you are at ease with your life. I’m making peace with myself too. Last week, I watched fireworks thinking that it was a great time to be alive and I’m grateful that I appreciate little things. Of course, I thought of us watching the fireworks together, it was lovely and I do not regret a single moment of it. I think I’m perfect for me. Thanks for being by my side that day. When I look at my reflections, in car windows, in glass walled shops, in my shadows, in lakes, mugs filled with tea, and even when I painfully look into the mirror, I think I’ve started to nurture the little voice in my head. It has a timid heart but a ferocious voice and I’ve started to understand why it says what it does. I listen to it, subconsciously, it fills my gut and I think it’s true to me. I believe I’m art. You’ve told me I’m not like the other girls. I giggled back then thinking it was a great thing to say. Along the way, I’ve realised that I do not want to be complimented by insulting other women. It feels like a competition that none of us signed up for. Every woman, every man, every gender in existence is art and I cannot deny about the great beauty you possess either. I’ve started knitting sweaters and insinuating fires to keep myself warm. Rubbing my palms helps too. My heart feels warm with or without you. It’s no surprise. My mother called me today morning. She said my voice sounded fragile, that I should drink more milk, it helps the bones from wearing away. You’ve been gone too long, and I miss you, but it doesn’t seem like drought without you and I can walk alright. I’ve started writing again, but it won’t be about you anymore. NASA says that the moon moves a centimetre farther away from Earth each year. So tonight, there’s going to be another poem about the moon and maybe an overjoyed expression my face before I fall asleep. I’ll write about how I feel about myself and of the beauty of plainly breathing. It doesn’t hurt as much when you fail to tell me what you’re thinking. It intrigues me, but I’ve learnt that I can’t force it out of your lips. First love never fades. And it’s okay, because you’ll always have a place for her in your heart and I can respect that. To keep my heart in the light, I’ve put up great lights in the yard. So I got my shit together and here I am. 

I am not saying that I love you any less than I did last winter.

All I’m saying that I love myself more.

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The weight of dead tastebuds.

There are cherries in the bowl. They day has been too long. Her sleeves stick to her framework.
Her fingertips are imprinted on cigarettes that you’ve been trying to escape. Her bathroom robe smells like your bedcovers. Her lamp isn’t as radiating as the glowbugs in your jar. It is something.
She is hollow. She is not empty.
She will feed her cat and the table cloths will be changed. Not now, not today, but soon.
She will rip her heart and slice it gently for the fish to consume. She will ride her bicycle in her yellow sundress with marigolds tucked behind her ear and a collection of dandelions in her basket. She will taste like regret and ashes to you. She tastes like uneasy pickles. Like voices in the overcrowded ballroom when you have no one to dance with. She tastes like hard pillows against a toddlers head. Like the ECG without the perception of the electrical impulse. She tastes like warm beer.
But this isn’t how your taste buds registered it for the former times.
She tasted like the first snowflake melting on your soft tongue. Maybe a little acidic like a girl riding a Harley Davidson. She looked like a complete mess of musical notes waiting to be played. She twirled like a bride overwhelmed with her wedding dress. She felt like the day when you accidentally pipetted out a little too much of weak base and your stomach felt funny. She felt like the lollipop you devoured which the nurse gave to you to ease it all away. She tasted like the first sip of hard liquor. Bitter and remorseful but warm. She didn’t taste like cocoa chapstick or strawberry lip balms. She tasted like mint leaves and dried rose petals.
She felt like rust against your skin so soon that it weakened your knees. She tasted like stars, love. She tasted like fireworks. Like disaster. But a lavish one.
The kind which comes lathered in honey.
An extraordinary disaster.
She tasted like an extraordinary disaster.

Little girl,

It’s okay to feel guilty when you come home late and have a bath with hot water on a school night. I won’t be mad at you. 

It’s okay if can’t write when you’re happy.

It’s okay if you feel like drowning in your bathtub. But it’s okay if you’re hydrophobic.
It’s okay if you can’t fly too high. You’re so little and you’re already trying so hard. Don’t stress your wings to the point to breakage. 

It’s okay if you want to smoke and fill your lungs with substantial material. You will outgrow it. You will find flowers to put next to the tar. You can spray pretty words on those little flowers to keep them alive.

It’s okay to take the bike out at midnight when you feel the anger in your head. It’s okay if you cry when you’re angry. Please stop the bike when your vision blurs away. Don’t drive too reckless, you won’t be able to steer the anger away that way.

It’s okay to fall in love with a girl. It will be easier for me to get you both gifts that way.

And if you fall in love with a boy, please love him like you have nothing to lose.

It’s okay to live to admire the moths when everything else fails on you. It’s okay to break and crash, you can fix yourself. Blood isn’t beautiful and leukocytes will help, liquor won’t. 

It’s okay to come home and look at yourself in the mirror for hours. 

You are beautiful. Inside out. No, don’t think of that boy who called you ‘ugly’. Please, give yourself rest. 

You don’t have to look pretty if you don’t want to. It’s not your job.

It’s okay to have scars, because I can’t stop you from cutting. But I must tell you that they aren’t worth your skin, even though they got under it so fast.

It’s okay to have insomnia. The lump in your throat will stay for a while. It’ll resurface often when things are going just too well. It’s okay to cry in showers, you don’t have to let the world weigh upon you.

It’s okay to leave without an explanation. It’s okay to get mad at people, however much you love them. It’s okay to let them learn that you hurt too. 

Hey bud, you don’t be so tough on yourself.

It’s okay if you get bad grades and you don’t want to do calculus every night with a stabbing feeling in your tummy.

You will figure it out someday. Maybe I will too have it figured by then.

It’s okay if you want to travel the world. I will help you with the finances. I will be worried, but you ought to make yourself feel like you’re capable of doing what you feel is right.

It’s okay to disappear. People can be exhausting. Sometimes you will build walls, but keep the bricks moist for the right people to break them down.

It’s okay to feel you will never love again after you have a heartbreak. But know that there is always something left to love.

It’s okay if the only thing you did today was breathe.

I hope you find this someday. 

I hope I raise you with a childhood that you don’t have to recover from.

Love,

Mommy.

Tell yourself to go home.

My lungs are on fire. 
There are dried petals in my leather bound dairy. I’ve lost all my bobby pins. 

My windows are open for the rain. There are free verses in my utensils. 

You will only find them in the middle of the night with the lights off. My lamp shade doesn’t work and the curtains have to be changed.

The key to my backdoor is in the pot of the sapling we planted together. My cat will be in the attic. 

I have beautiful postcards in my library, you may have them.

Please tell everyone that I died in a car accident. Tell them that I wasn’t ready for it. Tell them that I wasn’t proud. Tell them not to bring me flowers, they shouldn’t have to die for me.

Tell my family that I wasn’t high, my coffee was too strong. Tell them they needn’t write a eulogy.

Tell my friends to read more books. That chocolate cake tastes better when you’re happy. Tell them they were a good company. That there would be one less present for their birthday.

Tell my mother that I tried. Tell her that maybe I liked the idea of red and blue more than purple. That it’s important to live for our own self. Tell her to read my school essays. Tell her not to cry.

Tell my father that nothing will change.

Tell yourself that you’ll find someone to love again. That you’ll find ice for the burns. That there are a million ways to kill people, but not really. Tell yourself to be gentle with your fingertips. Tell yourself to take cold showers in summers, it’s pleasing. Tell your cells to function well.

Don’t make the coffee too strong.

Don’t bring me flowers.

Tell yourself to go home.

Letter 1.

A letter to a girl from 10 months ago,
I am sorry that you will dance to sad music in your shower. That you will upset yourself over people who do not matter. I am sorry that you will bake blueberry pancakes at 2:57am and he will not show up. I am sorry you that you will be left waiting.
I am sorry that you will have a war within your rib cage and sometimes you will slice your skin. That you will shudder when you feel one of his palms around your neck and the other between your thighs. I am sorry that it will feel right.
I am sorry that I will not fold my arms as gently as I fold my clothes. For the ink stained fingertips and the melting snowflakes and lesser human touch. I am sorry that sleep will come slower and your bedcovers will feel harsh. That ball point pen marks will fade and the poems you wrote on his torso and temples will disappear. I am sorry that you will be disappointed.
I am sorry that your plants will wilt because of lacking love. They might die and the flowers won’t grow. I am sorry that you will lose handkerchiefs and people. That the curtains won’t feel your fingers no more, that you will embrace dark places. I am sorry that your veins will pump blood slower.
I am sorry that your eyes will look like an abandoned ship with broken sails. That mint chocolate chip ice cream isn’t the same anymore. That the trees will lower their leaves so their hands can be held. I am sorry for they will feel alone. I am sorry that you will dislike coffee.
I am sorry that you will cease writing for four whole months. I am sorry that you will become indifferent and you will snap at your mother. You will accidentally break the dishes in the sink. I am sorry that you will pick them up with bare hands. I am sorry that your blood will look too bright.
I am sorry that you will dream of kissing white tulips and water lilies in your bathtub. I am sorry because you will take a lot of pictures and you will lose all of them. I am sorry that you won’t think of yourself as art as often. That you will dislike cheesecakes and you left the teapot on the stove since two days. 
I am sorry that your pelvis will feel weak often. I am sorry that the liquor cabinet will hold all your books, and the liquor bottles will adopt flowers. That my arms won’t feel as soft and you will grow distant. I am sorry that you will grow apart from him and all of them. I am sorry you will agonise.
I am sorry I don’t know what will happen after ten months. But I am sorry your candle will burn out. 
I hope you find new matches to light the fire.
Lots of love,
Someone who’s gone through it all.

Car accidents don’t just happen.

He was like a car accident. Too much wreckage and broken glass. 
Damage. Destruction. Blood. Dents. Mystic. Clutter. Horrifying. But pleasing, because it was meant to happen. He was meant to happen.
You’re trying to save him but you don’t know how. You manage to gather courage and sit in the passenger seat of the car and feel blood under your face.
He has one arm around your waist and it feels vaguely wrong.
You haven’t talked to him in three whole weeks but you’re ready there for an disaster completely headstrong and full of passion hoping you’d steer the wheel.
But it never goes as it is planned.
There are darker alleys than the others and the headlights seem duller than the usual. The crowd is a general buzz and you’re already high on the idea of his fingers in your hair.
He feels wrong, like toxic and bad alcohol. He doesn’t make you happy but he seems fun. It would’ve been a compromise. He could slam the car into the tree you just passed.
God. Stop. Get out of the car. Be selfish for once. Save yourself before you go saving him. Save your knuckles the damage. Your neck certainly does not need a twist. Your face doesn’t need any more wounds and nor does your heart. Your lungs have to breathe longer than that and your legs can’t be weak. You still have something to look forward to and you mustn’t let it be a car accident. He doesn’t adore you enough anyway.
He doesn’t know your middle name. He doesn’t know what you smell like before bedtime. He doesn’t know why you stay awake at 4:37 am. He has no clue of how you take your bath water. He doesn’t know why you don’t like kites or why you skip dinner. He doesn’t know why you don’t like the colour orange or green or what your first meal was. He doesn’t know how you howled every night in your seventh grade and he doesn’t know your favourite flowers. He doesn’t know how you’re wired with your family and he doesn’t know why you write what you write. He doesn’t know which shows you binge watch and why sunsets make you grumpy. He doesn’t know that you wrote poems about your grandmother’s skin or the fact that you don’t swim anymore. He doesn’t know how you looked when you were nine.
You don’t deserve a car accident with a man you were accidentally infatuated with.
God. Stop. Get out of the car.

Maybe we were a little in love? Maybe we still are.

Maybe we were the confused moths and went towards the storm instead of the light. Maybe we preferred thunder instead of the sky filled with lanterns. Maybe that’s why we jumped into the ocean and swam backwards. Maybe we wished we were swans. Or maybe we would just wait until sparkling water filled our lungs. Until we float. But, maybe we drowned.

So we’ll sip coffee for dinner and litter our Heinekens in our balcony. Maybe we’ll paint our walls white so that we can write our stories over them. Maybe we’ll build our home together and choose orange bulbs over white ones. We’ll jump into the fountains on the streets, just to dance. Maybe we’ll wake up in the garden on the bench where we exchanged books for the first time. Maybe we will sit in a Ferris wheel again and play video games at midnight. Maybe we will hope to shine brighter than most of the stars that we fell in love with. 

You were magic. Maybe I was too.

Maybe we were like innocent angels in the dark woods. All by ourselves in the cochlea of the dense forest. But we rode on wolves.

Maybe when we’ll visit museums, we will appreciate art in each other’s eyes. Maybe it’s not a very easy chore to heal wounds, so we kiss each other until we are one person. Until we merge. Maybe we’ll take too many pictures of what we don’t want to lose. Maybe we’ll end up having pictures only of each other. It is hard to breathe when poets fall in love. Like galaxies manifested it but the sun shoots fire in our hearts. 

Maybe we were a little in love. Maybe we were built to fall apart.