Piece by piece, I tore myself, tore at myself. Warm sugary-smelling blood burned these feet that walked to betrayal. There was no pain. Underneath, the muscle and bone and sinew was ready to die. Ready to resurrect.

What am I? Who am I?

Deeper, the marrow tainted black and ashen yet glowing: not half bad, not half tainted. Just just. I stood unsheathed, naked and ugly. We are all like this, under the shiny things.

How do you cut open the spirit?

Your innards may lay gazing at the sky and you remain no closer to the truth. What lies inside, stays inside, even when your thoughts (or not) are seen through your affections, affectations.

What are YOU?

Irks and loves, pains and pleasures, nonchalances and obsessions. Silly adjectives that purport to mask (or unmask) a man.


On Insecurities

Who’s she with now?

What does she think of me?

What is she doing?

Will I ever get a good job?

How can I ever afford that!?


These and more. I’ve been there. Sometimes, I think I live there: the never ending questions on whether I’m good enough, smart enough, whatever enough. I’m young, I’m allowed such ruminations. Insecurity is, I think, a facet of youth.

Yet, none is more pronounced than those that deal with those we love, those we want to love us back. I find my well curated facade of confidence and nonchalance (and it’s all a facade, even with you) breaks when confronted with my own intense affection and attraction. I become the proverbial stuttering mess. It’s actually funny to watch myself go through these thoughts and feelings, the silly imaginings, the case scenarios of heartbreak and gloom.

And that’s all they are, that’s all everything is: thoughts. Reality is shaped by what we think, and reality then shapes what we think (vicious or virtuous circle/ cycle. It’s really all up to you). Being insecure, therefore is a futile endeavour: one creates a reality that doesn’t yet exist, and then becomes a prisoner of that very existence. A beautiful parallax of sorts, if ever there was one, noticing this twisted wondrousness.

So, maybe you are whatever enough. Whatever you think it is you are you’re right.

On Self-awareness

Self-discovery, self-awareness, knowledge of self, call it what you will, is standing in front of a mirror and confronting your demons, taking a knife and cutting yourself open and letting them ooze out. It will be excruciating. Sometimes, it requires that you bludgeon yourself open. You will remain a heap of bones, broken and beaten but all the better for it.

Between the Lies

Reading your emotions was misleading. I spent more time imagining myself tracing the contours of your face with my fingers than unmasking you. Your words are… were ambrosia dripped into my soul. How lovelier your whispers would be if I nibbled on your neck. Fleeting were your touches, and they felt like razors on my skin. Sweet pain as my blood watered my wandering longing mind. Would that I could that they were just mine, on every inch of my skin. I’d’ve gladly burned under you. Once ago. You stared straight into my heart and what you saw made you shiver. I shivered that you shivered. Yet, your smiles were as warm as my insides could never be for you. It was an act, a darn fine one. Brava! Brava! It wasn’t an act. I should’ve listened closer. To your truths, the ones you whispered and intimated as though it hurt you to say them. I was blinded by your light. All I could do, what I did, was read between the lies.

But, they weren’t lies, were they? This is what my ego calls them.

No More

No more.
I will love you no more.

Even if heaven’s winds have brought you

The hurts, the loves.

The plastic.
I’m tired of lying,

To myself,
That things may get better.

This clay
Can be no longer moulded,

From conception
To beautiful complexion.

You are a stranger,
As am I.

This feels wrong.
I have shut you out.

What more can you do?
What more can I do?

No more.