[source: http://weheartit.com/entry/14758527 ]

i wonder what it would be like to be lightning. i would ride upon the darkest storm clouds and perch above the sky, look down upon tiny people and their fragile, inanimate buildings, and thunder would shout all around me. in my little vacuum of chaos i would ride into the sky, perfectly white from head to toe, untouchable, incomprehensible, indestructible.

when people see me coming they cower in their little concrete blocks. i am the force that lights up your darkest rooms, i am the only force fit to accompany thunder in the storm, i am the force that severs trees from the earth, kills humans, destroys environments. what’s it like to be so dangerous? my very breath is sparked with electricity, my very form was conceived from the sky itself.

but everything i touch fizzles and burns. my only company is the immaculate mass of dust and water upon which i stand. i am neither with the earth or the heavens — i lie somewhere in between. what’s it like to be suspended between the two layers of the living? i belong to no one, and to everyone. i am neither human nor immortal, neither living nor dead. i am merely force. i am merely destruction. 

(written on 29 april ’15)

a murder of birds

yes, officer, i saw the whole thing. i believe i was the only witness; but i can’t be sure, i was in shock. no, it’s okay, i’m fine now, i’ll speak. it was roughly 2.30 in the afternoon. i was on my way back home, about to cross the car park, when it happened. i had just stepped out of the void deck into the car park when i saw a big group of pigeons gathered on the road around some food. they were cooing, nice and pigeon-like. i thought nothing was wrong, all was as it should be. a car pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward the exit, along which the pigeons were standing. it moved slowly but steadily straight into the direction of the pigeons. most flew away. one couldn’t in time. 

TWHACK! 

that was what it sounded like when the car ran over the pigeon. a gory echo of rubber and metal over feather and hollow bone. it didn’t even stop, it just kept going, that unrepentant bastard of a driver. the other pigeons didn’t come back for its fallen brethren. i was shocked, i stood there for a while, horrified obviously. the pigeon look so flattened and still, so surely dead. i couldn’t believe i had just witnessed a murder that could have so easily been prevented. 

natural remedy

{source – http://weheartit.com/entry/148255366 / tumblr}

i.

the bare trees
hold forked limbs that
point up to the sky,
as if asking Heaven
why they were created
only to be destroyed.

ii.

the neighbours had complained of mosquitoes
being housed in the trees that guarded my window side.
i guess that was the pity of living
in an apartment building.
when i had reached home one afternoon,
i noticed the corridor was awfully bright.
awfully bright.
the trees had never looked so sullenly brown,
nor had the nearby building seemed so close.
the other trees had been left with leaves, intact,
but they seemed to huddle away
from the site of destruction;
their emaciated bodies looking on, forlorn.

iii.

i came home to find bright green leaves sprouting
on the trees that guarded my window side.
they were being reborn.
their roots began to sink deeper into their
restricted section of soil
and they pressed harder at the chance of new life.
such is the beauty of nature’s persistence, i thought;
for this had not been the first time
that these trees had been bare.

iv.

today i stepped on something
that should have been familiar
but was not. i glanced down
and i was on the grave of a tree within my estate.
its trunk was gone, but its roots remained,
and i was horrified;
but i knew it was not dead. it would grow back.

among the concrete
buildings, full of humans, fierce
was mother nature.

i am not broken

It took me a while to learn
Of wholeness, of being a person
All my life I was searching for someone
Who would kiss me on the lips and hold my hand;
Look me in the eyes with love;
And fill a hole I thought I had

As a little girl I went from crush to crush;
Infatuation to infatuation
In love with the idea of always having someone
To gaze at adoringly,
To admire from afar,
To play out scenarios in my head where we became lovers
Obsessed with the theory that I would always need
Somebody else.

But people, I learned, are meant
To complement and not complete
And I realised that I can be content
Without somebody else on my mind.

If I scratch, break, shatter
I will put myself back together.
I will pick up my own pieces,
and glue myself back.
I am not broken,
I am not a half looking for another,
I am a whole human being and I will love myself enough.

voices

{found here – http://www.edhodgkinson.com/small.html }

some voices
hang, for a second,
a tiny soap bubble in a city of glass,
before shattering into tiny shards –
frozen remnants of words –
and dispersing throughout the air
too insignificant to matter

some voices
pierce,
a rain of arrows in stale air
javelins sailing, finding their mark in eardrums,
reverberating like gongs,
insistent and demanding and mesmerizing and
captivating.

some voices
are heard without meaning to,
are forgotten,
are never heard.
some voices
are defeated under crushing weight,
are waiting to shine through the darkness.

 

numb island

{found here – http://vk.com/loditta24 }

i think my skin is morphing into bark.
i tear at it but it does not break.
i try to bend my fingers, but everything is stiff;
my steps are big and clumsy and i fall on my face
but it is okay, i am protected. my skin
cannot be scratched

i think my skin is morphing into bark.
i tear at it but it does not break.
my father slaps me across the face, but i feel
nothing. my mother tries to lace her fingers
around mine. they do not fit.
my lover puts their hands on my face,
on my waist, on my legs. they are crying,
“do you feel nothing for me now?”
i put my hand on their shoulder, but
they shake leaves off their side.

i think my skin is morphing into bark.
i tear at it but it does not break;
i peel but it does not bend.
there are times when even i prick myself.
and as far as protection goes, i am happy with it.
but there will always be a part of me that regrets
making my walls so high, making my borders
so hard to trespass, locking myself inside a
tiny prison with self-induced claustrophobia.

i think my skin is morphing into bark.
i tear at it but it does not break
but i ache to feel again.

it’s crowded in my head

{image found here}

There was once a boy I was infatuated with.

I thought the long looks he sent me from across the room were of want and need, of bashfulness and of insecurity. Only after I fell out of infatuation with him did I realise that he has the same wide eyes for everyone, brown-tinted irises and bushy eyebrows that never bent a different way for me. An emotion I once dare mistake for captivated was actually just perplexed.

He was wondering why the tight-lipped girl who hardly formed a string of words in his presence was looking so curiously at him. I had thought, some several summers ago, that a boy who held my gaze for four seconds straight and did not let go had to be in some kind of love with me. I had never found out if that was a misconception or not.

On some occasions the tips of his fingers would brush against mine, and I would feel the supposed sparks of electricity in a deep pit of my stomach. I was set on the assumption that these touches were not coincidental, but part of a ploy of a magnetic boy who knew whose fingers were the north to his south. Or at the least, happy accidents born of a silent desire repeated so many times – in a head usually so quiet – that the Forces of the Universe bent to his wishes. I wanted to tell him that I would gladly hold his hand and walk as far as he wanted; but I only recently realised that he had never planned to hear those words from me.

When I was still in infatuation with him, I thought that he was exactly what my heart wanted. Countless nights my subconscious would play back his face, and in the morning I would wake up with the sun in my hair and a stupid smile on my face. For hours I would ponder on my approach for when I next met him, like a chess game I was playing with delicate fingers, playing for a stake I did not want to lose.

I ended up with a bitter stalemate, a halfway-there-but-not-quite, the definition of “in the middle of nowhere” leaving an unusual taste on my tongue.

Unapologetically, I had given all I could to him for two years. Every conversation that was too far out of comfort zone, every forlorn stare, every indiscreet comment. Every fantasy of the future, every content smile thinking “I’ll wait for him”, every poem I ever wrote for him.

It was only infatuation, but it still hurts when he looks me in the eye.

{written on 5 Oct ’14}

cover (up) girl

{found on We Heart It}

In the mirror, in the morning, I am perfect.
Or rather, attractive. Desirable. Presentable.
Something about the way my hair curls naturally
The way my face looks porcelain without make-up
The way my clothes match my skin tone.
In public, I am the girl who walks
with the right mix of grace and quiet
Like a still, glassy pond reflecting a brilliant sunrise.
Exuding a certain kind of confidence
Never misplaced, never wavering
Back straight, chest up, eyes focused.

So why is it that at home,
I am the girl
In messy clothes, bad posture, blemishes
Who looks at herself in a front-facing camera
And laughs it off too quickly?
Why am I the one
Who wishes to be in a body more mature than her own
Desperate to own make-up for covering up her face?

Why is it that
At home, I am the girl
Made of clay
Anxious to fit into the right mould
Afraid to dry too soon into
an ugly, indefinite mess?

I’ll go to sleep, and tomorrow will be a new day
But time is running out on my hour glass
My day-to-day hours of glory are growing shorter
And I know that one day I will wake up,
Hungry for self-love,
And I will slap on a new mask
And hopefully, be able to pretend that everything is all right.

a year of different seasons, a year with you

{image found here: http://favim.com/image/1801982/ }

HER:

I, January.

I liked you from afar.

You, the tanned boy with black-framed glasses that I found my eyes gravitating toward;
I, the girl by the corner of the room, lips pursed and expression clouded,  in a mood of constant contemplation.

You, the boy who deliberately didn’t do class work or pay attention;
I, the girl who found herself struggling to pay attention with you in the room.

You, the boy with nothing to lose;
I, the girl with so much to hope for.

 

II, February.

You came closer.

You, the boy I saw at every school event I attended;
I, the girl who found it step out of her shell.

You, the boy who talked loudly and laughed even louder;
I, the girl who spoke softly and cried even softer.

You, the boy that met my gaze that night;
I, the girl who held it.

You, the boy with the almond brown eyes;
I, the girl who would never forget.

You, the boy who I found staring at me in class, unblinking;
I, the girl who quickly looked away, unbelieving.

You, the boy who joined my group for projects, wanted to know me;
I, the girl who let myself go.

 

III, June.

I loved (you) every minute.

You, the boy who could brighten my day with a ‘good morning’;
I, the girl who made you bagels for breakfast and met you before the sun rose.

You, the boy who couldn’t sing but did it anyway for a laugh;
I, the girl who found myself joining in, unabashed.

You, the boy who bought me lunch when I had lessons after school;
I, the girl who automatically knew when you entered the room.

You, the boy who introduced me to new people;
I, the girl who taught you math formulae and chemical reactions.

You, the boy who took the train home with me;
I, the girl who lived in the opposite side of the city from your house.

You, the boy who wished me ‘good night’ every night without fail;
I, the girl who started sleeping later and smiling more.

 

IV, July.

I told you I liked you.

You stood perfectly still.
I couldn’t breathe.

You looked away, eyes uneasy.
I shut my eyes, preparing for the worst.

“My grades–” you started, then stopped.
I blinked, once, twice, waiting.

“I can’t have a girlfriend this year-”
“…not with the national exams coming up.”

“Yes.”
Silence. “I understand.”

“I’m sorry.”
“Did you ever feel the way I feel toward you?”

A pause. “I think so.”
A sliver of something that could be, yet nothing at all.
“Let’s just pretend this conversation never happened.”

 

V, August.

We spent time apart.

You, the boy who left with his friends;
I, the girl who stayed in school to study.

You, the boy who talked to everyone but me;
I, the girl who found afternoons more quiet than ever.

You, the boy who continued eating bagels I did not make;
I, the girl who eventually got used to the space beside me as normal and not empty.

You, the boy who still sang loudly and out of tune;
I, the girl who did not want to hope for things that could not be.

 

VI, October.

The national examinations were around the corner.
Months of stress had built up and left me exhausted and weary.
Even the sky began to weep uncontrollably,
sending sheets of white down every day,
leaving us frigid, leaving us cold.

You called me the day after the last examination.
Asked me to meet you in the garden behind the school.
When I saw you there, you pulled me into an embrace with your gloved hands,
And said: “I’ve missed you so much. I should never have–”
And I said, crying: “Don’t ever do that again.”

 

VII, December.

You became my worst distraction.

You, the boy who slung his arm around my shoulders in the cinema;
I, the girl who fed you popcorn and giggled softly.

You, the boy with callous, rough, warm hands;
I, the girl that held them gently.

You, the boy with a million childhood stories;
I, the girl with big dreams of becoming famous.

You, the boy who I bought matching phone cases with;
I, the girl you showed your hiding places.

You, the boy who told everyone I was your girlfriend;
I, the girl who brought you home for dinner with my family.

You, the boy who sees my vulnerability like no one else;
I, the girl who confided your fears to.

You, the boy I love.
I, the girl who is hopeful.

Things are looking up.

{john legend – all of me}

{written on 2 August ’14}

waiting (for things that will never come)

To the people who were just too far apart to make a connection, no matter how hard each person tried.

This is the third time I’ve had to dial;
this time, the house number.
My father picks up, perks up when he hears my voice
Asks, “where are you now?”
I tell him, “please pass the phone to mom.”

Silence quickly ensues,
and he calls for my mother.
More silence. Eventually,
“She wants to know where you are.”
“Khatib. Can you tell her to come out and fetch me?”

He pauses, a silent question lingering in the air:
‘Am I not good enough?’
But it is ignored, and maybe for a second
I consider asking him to fetch me instead
But it is gone in the same second.
And in that last note a thousand lines could be supplemented instead,
a thousand ways to make up for earlier
“I love you”s or “I’ll see you at home” or
“I bought breakfast” or “I’m going to work tomorrow”
or something, or anything

“Okay,” is the final reply.
I strain to say “by—”
But the line goes dead.

{written on 1 August ’14}