The problem is,

The problem is,
I don't want to say goodbye,
I want to say goodnight,
I don't want to hug you now
Just when I know you'll go,
I want to hug you
When I know you'll stay close.

The problem is,
I don't want to say good morning,
I want to say hello
And meet you again for real,
Each day like a constant refresher,
A favourite song on replay,
Where we'll fall in love with each other
Over and over again.

The problem is,
I don't want to see you go,
Not if you're going forever,
Not if this is to be a farewell,
Not if this is to be the last dance,
The last hug, the last kiss.
I want to be your forever last,
The woman standing beside you.

But the truth is,
You've already packed your bags,
You're standing at the door,
You're watching me say all this
And wondering how you stayed so long,
You're going away to never come back,
You're asking me to not be empty,
To not be a drama queen and make
The last day, the LAST day, a misery.

The truth is,
I knew you'd leave.
I gave you every bit of a broken heart
Which was all I had left after years
Of caring too much, realising too late,
Of choosing to be the fool who
Thinks she is loved.
And you put it back together,
Sealed it together with gold,
Just to throw it down again
And walk away like it's all good.

Unfortunately reality begs me,
To analyze, to rationalize my pain,
To understand your situation as well,
To forgive that I was never your priority
Even when I gave you first place,
To comprehend that my feelings
Are my own responsibility,

Reality forces me,
To accept that I will not be accepted,
To accept that this is no one's fault.
But where will you be?
When you need that love,
When you need that acceptance,
When you need a wake-up call,
When you need that one person
To be your home,
Where will you be?
Where will you go?
I hope it will be, still,
To my back door.
To my window sill.
To my room.
To my love.
To me.

The One of the Flames

Because my friend demanded a happy ending and this is how happy I could get:

#The Flamed.

You begin one which is all love and flames,
A cheery story to warm hearts as tales,
This tale about the girl who walked through flames,
She came out alive, lived to tell the tale.

So sad for her, one day she was waylaid,
A group of men hornier than dogs in heat,
Tore her up, tore her up like meat,
Bleeding, bruised and scarred, they left her to die

But she was one who had walked the flames,
She couldn't just lie down, give up the game.

So began the true story of the flames,
It was one of a girl who'd been thrown out in shame,
She had sold her body, all for love,
Came back with a child, they say, cursed from above.

They told her she should walk through fire,
Because the child was to blame,
For how could she of the skin fair,
Come back with a child, black as hell?

She cried and told her story
But no one would dare to hear,
For how dare they hear with the child from hell
Hanging on to his mother dear?

The child was dark, black as night,
With hair as red as blood,
His fingernails were yellow and teeth were edged
Like nail points to bite and kill.

The fear of him grew stronger and stronger,
The child avoided the sun,
Well-wishers in disguise, they thought up a plan,
Let her walk the flames of truth and tell

Her story to all, man and woman alike,
Children even if they wish,
But only if she survives may she stay,
The child shall go with her.

Plan set into motion, the girl had no choice,
When path was set on fire,
She hugged her son tight,
Whispered three words and then gathered him close,

She walked through the path, her eyes closed,
Her mouth reciting stories from old,
Of a beautiful man who waylaid her with love,
While she was on fire and walking through earthly hell.

The beautiful man turned out to be a demon,
And maybe her child is demon spawn,
But abandon him, she will not,
And out she walked, unscathed.

But alas, for her, for everyone,
The child had disappeared.

She screamed all night through,
Tore out her hair,
Ripped off her clothes,
All in pure despair,

When she got up on her feet,
She walked away,
Searching for her child and
The man who had led her astray.

That was when the men waylaid her,
Ripped her up and bruised her,
But she was still burning, nursing her wounds,
Her small body threw out flames and they died.

Where is the love and cheer you ask?
Well dear lady, that was only a false mask.
Courage arises out of fear and hatred,
We admire what we ourselves dare not test.

So this is the story of the girl,
She walked the flames and survived,
She found her child, she made a life,
All on her own, she was a soul that lived right.

- People lie, cheat, deceive, molest...but in the end, how you hold up is what matters, isn't it? Not what they did or will do. But how you face up to the ones who wish to see your will broken and eyes defeated. How you say that one word, NO.

Abandoned

Don't give her hope
If it's to take it away,
Don't put the pretty carpet under her
If it's only to pull away,
Never ever tell her you love her
If it's only a lie,
And don't promise to take her away
If you were planning on saying goodbye.

My dears...

You gave birth to me.
You raised me.
You give me money.
You try to provide me with everything that money can buy.

Because that's enough for you.

In return, I try to appease you.
I get good grades, I work myself as much as I can.
I get the prizes, the medals, the trophies and the certificates.
I get praise from everyone who knows me.
I do everything asked of me.
Everything which seems to entitle being a good daughter.

But nothing seems to please you.

My faults, my crimes. Let me list them.
I talk to boys, I make friends with them :
They address with a familiarity you cannot abide.
I do work that I will not be applauded for : I do donkey work that is beneath your status.
I make friends with girls who are "loose" :
Whose parents accept boyfriends and going out alone in buses.
I use language and words instead of numbers and science :
I teach myself new things, oh the horror of the unknown.
To top it off, I get ill so much, you think I'm faking the pain:
To get out of exams -
Which I ace,
To get out of classes -
Which I love,
To get out of doing my "work" -
Which is all that I ever do to the point
That I can barely sit and eat at night
Before crashing into bed and oblivion.
To get *attention* -
Which I do get to the point I'm searching for anonymity.

My dear parents.

You damaged me.
Reasons I am unable to explain now.
Reasons I am unable to forgive anymore.
Reasons I find myself hateful.
Reasons I find myself ill in your very presence.
Reasons I see myself in the mirror and...

I hate. I hate. I hate. I hate.

Not even a lizard falling on me upsets me now.
Maybe you'd understand the significance of that one day.

But I hate.

My dear parents.

You're such loving, kind, caring people to the rest of the world.
You're role models with an exemplary family of brilliant minds.
You excel at whatever you touch and grow money out of trees.
You are *so nice*.

Yet your daughter is so damaged that she can barely look at you in the eye.
Your daughter identifies herself with the worst of the worst, the lowest of the low.
Whenever she finds a way to start loving herself again,
She loses it all.
All her castles fall down.
All her bridges burn down.
All her forests go up in flames.
All that is left of her washes away in waves.

So thank you.
For isolating her, for doubting her, for trying to destroy her individuality.
She'll just leave you see.
I left, didn't you see?

And there is no coming back from that.

Goodbye means goodbye, my dear parents.

Goodbye.

Touch me

I must admit, the one thing which people here do so freely, touch, is something that I cannot bear.

The touch of my parents repulse me. The hug of a loving aunt repulses me. The helping hand of a caring uncle repulses me. The kiss of my sister repulses me. The casual touch of any friend repulses me, especially if I'm not prepared for it.

I cannot bear being touched if I'm not mentally prepared to accept the touch at least 20seconds before hand. I jerk away and offend them or worse, hurt their feelings. I don't even like touching others in the form of a hug or a kiss. It takes a lot out of me to do it, to share myself in such a familiar way.

Yet your touch. Your touch, I seek.
I feel it like a warm bed of grass on a spring day. A fluffy blanket on a winter night.
The ratty piece of fabric I must cling on to so that I may sleep in the middle of a blazing summer.
The cold, soul numbing feel of the thunderstorm welcoming monsoon into the country. I feel your touch like second nature. Even if I don't see it coming, I feel its comfort the moment your hand lies on my shoulder. I don't jerk away. I don't pull back. I don't feel scared or repulsed.
I love your touch.

But only yours. I don't see germs creeping up my skin when another touches me, no. I don't feel a need to wash myself either like an obsession. I just do not...like it.

But you, your touch makes me feel complete. It feels like the other half that I had been so desperately trying to find.
You hold me like I'm the most precious thing in the world. You kiss me like there might not be a tomorrow.
You touch me like I'm you and you're me.

Touch me.