An Awkward Collection Of Poems About Death #3

 

The thing about loss
Is that it didn’t hit me
When it happened.
I didn’t feel loss.
Not when I got the call.
Not when I attended our last party together
Everyone wearing black.
Her favourite colour.
Not when there were two bodies
and only one person
that last time I saw her.
Pale.
No, I didn’t feel loss.
I felt everyone else’s loss
And made it my own.
A vacancy inside me
Filled with pain
not of my own doing.
And that made it worse.

It was three days later
I was checking my phone
And I didn’t see her name
Pop up at the crank of dawn.
She wasn’t on my recents
Only recently passed.
The vacancy started to fill up
With the deafening sound of absence.

A week later I was at a book store
I found a book with chapters named
Only in odd numbers.
She was an odd little one.
She would have liked it.
I almost bought the book for her.

Thirty one days later
That movie she wanted to see
Came out.
I went alone.

It’s just one never-ending monotone.
Sometimes you forget she’s gone.
She’s still there, you know.
Writing, eating, breathing.
Am I lying to myself or is time lying to me?
And my ears pick up the monotone again.
A frustration.
Of so much to say
But when you turn the recorder on
You realise you have nothing to record.
Succumb to the monotone.

A year and a half later
I shift to a new city
Unloading the pieces of my life.
I find a stone.
Our hike up the mountain.
When she told me
She’d move mountains for me.
And suddenly I feel selfish.
Because I had not thought of her
For a year.

The vacancy never really gets filled.
The pain just numbs until
You trick yourself into believing
You are as you were.
Whole.
Without loss.
With nothing to find.

I don’t think I’ll ever stop looking.

Snapshots

Sometimes in my dreams
I see myself
Differently
Maybe I see myself as a
Future version.
The person I want to become
Maybe not the person I do become.

I saw myself last night.
Long, thick, silky black hair
Tumbling down
Covering my bosom
I’m wearing white
And there’s sharp bright light
On my face
It’s like a snapshot
A Photo Booth
I look happy
Confident
Older, more mature
So much more mature.
And more wise.
My face has shrunk into the holes
Of ageing, my skin taut
My eyes sharp as ever.
My soul ever sharper.
I liked looking at myself like that.

I didn’t look complete.
But I looked wholesome.

Autumn Sweater

I see her in the distance
It’s been too long
She isn’t the way I remember her
Maybe I imagined her wrong.

She’s more radiant, authentic, real
And I can see her flaws
But that’s what makes her the
Girl I once loved.

I hesitate, should I move towards her?
Should I utter a meaningless greeting?
After all these battles and wounds
Will she be hostile; bleeding?

Should I be too? After all she
Broke me, bled me till I was black and white
Till colour wasn’t in my dictionary
Yes, I will keep my stand and fight.

She broke my heart,
I’ll break her apart.

But her eyes catch hold of me
Like dreams in a dream catcher
Like a forest fire beautifully ablaze
Like the spectrum of her laughter

I remember as her eyes search mine
The childish crinkles and giggles
She’s more beautiful than in my dreams
Memories, traditions and kisses.

I was wrong.
I replaced my heart with my liver
My dreams with revenge
And my nightmares with her.

I move towards her and see
Her eyes, bubbling with fear
Did I really scar her so badly
She can’t have me near?

Pools of unbridled emotion emerge
And I take a step towards her
She doesn’t move away
My senses blur.

I’ve never seen her so afraid
She was my queen and I was her king
But the girl in front of me
Is a deer in headlights, carefully listening.

I move closer. Her hand
On my face is my medi-sin
Her scent, her eyes, her neck
She is my skin.

She is my home.
I was running away
Elixirs and potions to drown my fear
All I needed was her to stay.

I’ll stop running away now.
I need her, now and forever.
She is my home.
She is my autumn sweater.

Open With Caution

‘Open with caution’, he warns
You may not like what you see
Thousands before you have feared
The real picture of me.

I open the box with hesitation
Mixed with fear and elation
The creek opens an empty cabinet
Is this his biggest temptation?

‘Ahh, I see you have found it
The mirror of my heavy spirit
The box is empty and so am I
This is what you are to commit.’

I look in his eyes and see
The opposite of his reality
He is so full of life and love
He’s a lock and I’m the key.

My hand on his cheek I say
‘I’m willing to take the risk and stay’.

Ethereal

With his hands cold
On my shoulders and hips
With his voice in my mouth
He takes a sip
Of me and he moans
I’m not just a pretty face
No that can be erased
He tells me I’m subjective
Existing only in poetic imagination
Concealed as an ideal
Of volatile origin.
And that’s why he cannot believe I’m real.
Only ethereal.
So he holds me close and devours me whole.

Stardust

Seperated by stardust
The only escape for us
To travel a million miles
Just to make me smile
Even if you can’t see me
You’ll put down your cuppa tea
And dial my number
In the middle my slumber
To hear my voice again
Match our wavelengths.
Laugh till the end
Of the night in your arms
Away from all harm.

Baggage

I dropped off my bags at the station today
I’ll never collect them again.

I wonder if someone else will find them
And look at all those memories
Wonder who these two strangers are
See all our first times, so vividly
Thru an unknown set of eyes
Will they see that love disguised
The one I never spoke of to you
The one you always knew.

Or will those bags be unclaimed
Left in the dust and stained
With the liquor of time
Tossed aside with hate and crime
Do these bags, really deserve that?

They are my bags, blue and bright
And yours are grey and white.
Same instances, different perspectives
One with colour and the other deprived.

I love them, I wish I didn’t have to.

But I drop my bags off,
And though they are precious to me,
I shall not collect them again.

What have you done with your bags?

I Believe in Me and You.

I believe in me and you.

I believe that I can fly and will not need you to be my wings.

I believe that I can walk out into the sunshine enjoy it on my own.

I believe that I can be the woman I want to be, I need to be, and I won’t need you to show me how.

I believe that I can grow into a butterfly and you don’t need to be my cocoon.

I believe I can achieve great things, not by your side.

I believe that one day you can be a guest and not a permanent resident in my memories.

I believe I can protect myself, for myself.

I believe that I can be a bundle of contradictions, an enigma, that you don’t have to solve.

I believe that I can eat chocolate ice cream and cry, but not about you.

I believe I can buy a book without thinking what you might have thought of it.

I believe I can make a joke and not wonder if you would laugh at it.

I believe that one day I’ll stop looking at the words you wrote for me.

I believe I can go to the restaurant where you told me you loved me and sit at a table for one.

I believe I can stop thinking about you.

I believe that one day, years from now, I’ll think of your face with no regret.

And I hope that we meet again, not as lovers, but as strangers in a crowd and just smile at each other. And no more, no less.

I believe in me and you.

I believe in me.

War

“I feel like I’m waging an internal battle.”

You’ve heard this line uttered by countless teenagers and 20-something’s and this is the point where you make up your mind about this being just another cliche melodramatic rant. You would probably stop reading here.

Let’s try to think out of the box here, just for a second. Every battle is not the same. And mine doesn’t have two sides; it has many.

There is no good or bad, wrong or right side to my battle because a) there are more than two sides and b) if I knew which side was right, don’t you think I would have resolved this war?

So coming back to the point, I’m battling the different parts of myself:

The part of me that believes that our education system retards creativity versus the part of me that wants to get into a good college.

The part of me that doesn’t care what other people think of me versus the part of me that got upset when a boy called me a hypocritical airhead.

The part of me that yearns for human interaction versus the part of me that dislikes most of the people I meet.

The part of me that feels horrible when I say something against a person versus the part of me believes that differing opinions need to be expressed to bring about change.

The part of me that wants to stand out, but only in the ways which are socially acceptable.

The part of me that wants to have all the freedoms of being an adult versus that part that desperately clings to the shreds of childhood I have left.

The part of me that refuses to fall for the stereotypes the media subconsciously urges us to believe versus the part of me that tries to conform to ‘pretty’ almost every time I go out.

The part of me that knows I need to exercise more often because my health is deteriorating rapidly versus that part of me that just doesn’t exercise, because, exercise.

The part of me that rebels against high school drama versus the part of me that feels insufficient if I’m not involved in a high school drama.

The part of me that believes I’m special versus the part of me that thinks I’m just another human walking on a planet millions of human have walked on before.

I’m a walking, talking hypocrite inside. But isn’t everybody?