Found : unknown body

This broken heap of bones,
Pieces, piled on high stones,
They call this a body.
Look for the organs, the eyes,
The ears, the nose, the ties,
There are no ties. This is not a body.
This is a sarcophagus for a mummy,
The coffin of a bony zombie,
This is not a body.
       When it was touched, held,
       Worshipped, revered,
        It was a body.
       When it used to feel, was more than bones,
       Had organs that worked,
        It was a body.
       When it was loved, caressed,
       Made to feel infinite,
        It was a body.
Now it is just a pile of bones.
Stacked on rocks and little stones.
The stories etched on the greyness
Now fading, erodes
With time. This is not a body.
It is a mutilated piece of tragedy
That knew only the darkness cutting
Its last rivers of agony to that time bomb.
This was a body. It used to be called love.

Morbid curiosity/3

#mc/3

Two deaths. One more and she'd be branded a serial killer...or would she? Everything looked like accidents. It happened in the space of a month.

Lying in the arms of her gallery manager, her paintings out, she couldn't find sleep. She kept seeing reruns of her heightened emotions and awareness of those moments. Accidents shouldn't be so easy to stage. It shouldn't be. Her actions were so perfect as well. The wife was called a jealous lunatic even though she wasn't pressed with charges. She had disappeared like smoke.

Speaking of smoke, she wanted one. She went out into the balcony and lit one. Another near full moon. Few clouds, plenty of stars. Arms suddenly went around her and she reacted in surprise. She pushed.

Tiny balcony. Tinier railings. He didn't fall off but he stumbled and had just caught on the railing and supported himself.
"What's wrong sweetheart? Did you have bad dreams?", his concern irritated her. She sidled up close and rested her hands on his chest. "Yes, very bad."

In the split second he let go of the railings to embrace her, to comfort her, she pushed him and leaped back.

He fell off. Six stories. She stood with a blank face at the balcony, still smoking her cigarette.Last thought we know from her, "How to cover up this one now?"

- the end.

Morbid curiosity/2

#mc/2

"Sir, your drink?"
"Yes, thank you."
The way this man eyed her up and down sitting next to his own wife was pathetic. But there were many on that list now. She was helping the gallery manager, a sweet guy. She turned away to go and felt a pinch on her back. She jumped in surprise (and pain) and dropped her tray. As she bent down to retrieve it, a piece of paper floated down in front her face.

312, Gold Lane - come for a swim. Party 7pm 12/12/12

She smiled. How quaint. From an artist to temporary help in an art gallery to this. Whatever this was.

Ten o'clock had a nice moon shining in through the kitchen window. The patron was drunk. He had liked her art and already wrote out a check or two to her name...with what hopes, she knew but wisely chose to ignore. She needed the money.

"You're pretty for a nerd... I can't believe that you don't swim. That is no excuse for dressing like this"
Cotton slacks and a tshirt to a pool because she claimed she didn't swim. Well she came to run, not swim. He was holding her hand and pulling it. Her eyes roved the kitchen and gently maneuvered him to the chopping board.

He was still talking, slurring quite a bit now. It didn't make much sense to her...other than his intentions with her, none of which seemed promising. She could hear footsteps approaching the kitchen. She told him quietly, "Lean here, I'll fix you a coffee."
He grabbed her hand with his sweaty ones and empathetically shook his head. She pulled her hand out with sudden force, tripped him with her foot and moved almost instantly to the shelf.

The door opening and her opening the shelf and the patron's anguished cry was altogether.
"Oh my god!", both women screamed. The wife. The gallery assistant.
He wasn't dead yet, he was moaning. His wife ran to him, tried to lift him.
"Call the ambulance! Call 911!", she shouted. No reply. She turned her head to a room empty of anyone else.

Her husband was dying in her arms. The pale girl with dark hair, had it been her imagination? She hadn't seen her anywhere else. She had assumed it would be her husband's mistress or someone. She tried to frantically call for help.

The ambulance arrived a few minutes later to collect the dead body.

- continued.

Morbid curiosity/1

#mc/1

There wasn't any trace left. She had made sure of it. Getting him drunk was a piece of cake. Letting him trip on the knife stand was... Well, let's not go there. None of her clothes were in the place. A note she had written yesterday was safely stuck up on the mirror. Her fingerprints were around of course. As the girlfriend, she was supposed to have it around. But this was just an accident.

Just an accident.

Driving away was the easiest thing to do. She had just killed a man, her own boyfriend. The one her parents thought she was going to marry.

It was not her fault, of course. He led her into it. Who was he to stop her from visiting Florence to do her art research? Saying that she will sleep around... He had slapped her across the face. That bastard.

"Why the hell would you go to Florence? Where is that anyway!?"
"To do my art research, I already told you. The architecture..."
"To hell with the architecture! It's in Italy, ain't it? You planning to sleep around?"
"What! Of course not! Mind your words, I don't like this!"
"You know what? Neither do I. You're living under my roof and what I say goes. And you are not going."
"That's not for you to decide!"
*slap*
"Said something sweetheart?"
"I said I'm going."
*slap*
"You're not. Shut up."
*silence*

Leading him into his own murder had been...interesting. All these months of keeping quiet as he kept trying to tie her down, control her, possess her...

No other girl would be bothered again. Standing in the airport line, she didn't even feel remorse. Was she supposed to? The hunting had felt very...satisfying for some reason. But maybe not again. It's not like there are so many bastards to kill, is it?

Flight cancelled. Maybe the gods were telling her to stay and that her calling was somewhere else. She just wanted to try once more to get the curiosity out. Just once more.

- continued.

Random thoughts - untitled

Those first few days when she saw him, she was not interested. She didn't want to be. He was every living idea of a bad boy wannabe. Yet somehow, his kindness, his gentleness... These intrigued her. Under a hard surface, those soft spots were there. She fell in love, fell in love, hard.

The ways things were at the start were fine. It was, in fact, more than fine. It was magic, it was forever in a few moments. It was eternity, it was joy. It was a colourful bubble. It burst.

Things changed. He didn't want to spend time with her anymore. The way he was, she misunderstood as him pushing her away. He told her that they need to be alone, discover themselves. She replied that she already knew who she is, in the sense of she knows what she wants and doesn't want.

She also understood that he was jealous. She wanted him to do something about it if he, in fact, felt like that. Because he kept telling her that he doesn't care. But she was more or less sure that he does. She just wanted it to be expressed in constructive action rather than destructive silence. That did not come to be.

She finally pushed him off. She started to feel like a tool. Something which gifts him what he doesn't want and something capable of dispensing money and food. An akshayapathram. This was not the case, yet she misunderstood it that way. Or was it really the case? One would never know.

These misunderstandings were usually followed by reconciliations. Sudden, swift, needy, clingy. It left her wondering whether they were, indeed, just scared to be alone.

Was it loneliness engulfing them or their first dip in solitude? Was it that they no longer needed nor wanted the other person? Was it that love had died?

Could it be that may be it's our first mistake? And maybe that's alright? It's crazy how we lost ourselves tonight... There's a reason why they say that we should give it time, but time is not enough; and that's the reason why when you're young you fall in love...

Why do I write about you?

Why do I write about you?
Because I want you to exist as I see you :
Beautiful, broken, sharp edged, honest, clear -
That is my selfishness.

Why do I write about you?
Because I want you to live in my world :
Quiet, grey, sharp, bright, confused -
This is my curiosity.

Why do I write about you?
To kill you so that you will cease haunting my dreams -
Because I'm sleepless,
Lonely,
              Forbidden,
                                    Locked,
A book with blank pages,
               A grey blackboard,
                                     A broken pen spilling ink.

Because,
I'm bleeding at the sight of you
And killing you in pages
Seems to be
The only way I can hide.

Untitled

If it's one look that attracted you,
One unguarded smile that made you talk,
One small word could mean disaster,
It might just make you fall.

This same look will later despise you,
The same smile will be smug,
That same word might be disaster,
Child, guard your heart - falls hurt.

Withdrawal symptoms

I'm breaking line by line
Every word is like tick tock, time
Is my enemy and I cannot
Hide my deep rooted fears
Of this addiction I have.

This addiction I have,
It makes me drunk,
It gives me a nicotine high,
Sometimes even red high, poppy -
Transferred by intimacy and close proximity.

Close proximity, I killed you so many
Times in letters with words, with
Alphabets thrown at your head
All which you claim
Confuse you, and then me.

Then me, I'm breaking
Line by line where every word
Says tick tock, time is
Running out, we've reached goodbye,
But I'm still addicted.

It seems easier now

It seems easier now.
Though these flowers
seem duller,
Though these trees
seem darker,
Though these clothes
seem shabbier.

But it is easier now.
Without waiting
for a call,
Without waiting
for a word,
Without waiting
for a smile.

It is easier now.
After walking away,
Leaving the past in the past.
It's easier now.
That you've really told me to go,
And my heart is already on the floor.

I realise this,
That I should have
left a long time ago.

C'est qui?

Moi : flâneuse, lectrice, étudiante,
Enfant, fille, une femme vivante -
Ce sont les définitions données.
Tout le monde me défini,
On est mis dans les limites,
Sans droit à être,
Tout simplement être.

Moi : bizarre, timide, joueuse,
Sérieuse, méchante mais responsable -
Qui nous donne ces noms à porter
Comme toute la vie, on ne peut pas changer!
Chaque moment se passe, on âge,
Les minutes... Toc-toc... On change.

Moi : personne, tous, dieu,
Temple, église, mosquée.
C'est pas seulement moi,
C'est aussi toi.
Personne ne doit être définie
Au moins, par moi.

Que tu m'aimes...

Je voudrais que tu aimes celle qui t'aime;
Je voudrais que tu te confies à celle qui te comprend;
Je voudrais que tu trouves celle qui te cherche;
Je voudrais que tu reviennes à celle qui t'attend;

Je voudrais, enfin, que celle soit moi,
Que tu aies besoin de moi,
Que tu te confies à moi,
Que tu m'aimes encore -

Mais j'ai déjà déchiré ton coeur.

What's your name?

I saw you that night,
Black eyes, twinkling,
Like the stars in the sky.
I wanted to ask your name,
But I was too shy.

I saw you again, on the way
To the classroom, in the hall.
That was a morning, a bit indistinct,
I don't quite recall.
I thought of asking your name.

Few glances here and there,
We kept crossing paths yet
Like two strangers who couldn't care
Of what thoughts, unbidden, rise
In a heart caged by life.

I didn't know what to do.
I couldn't care less, but somehow I do,
Because each time I cross you,
I wish to ask your name.
Yet I feel I shouldn't do.

Should one bother over a stranger?
A stranger, intriguing and familiar?
This is a question to you too,
I'm sure even you've had the chance.
That stranger given a second glance.

Love changes

We're idiots holding on to broken pieces
Of what was once real and heartfelt.
Love changes.

We're the idiots not wanting broken bones
To set, not realising it's broken.
Love changes.

We're the idiots fighting for someone dead
Who has turned over in the grave with another.
Love changes.

My love, if I'm an idiot for holding on to you,
Expecting core feelings to be the same,
Expecting that I'd hear those words again,

My love, if I'm an idiot for begging you and
Falling for you even when I know it is a fall,
You're the bigger idiot letting us down.

But you know what, my love?
We still have feelings for the feelings we used to have.
But love changes.

A Letter to Baby

I knew he was leaving. This was something we had discussed and settled in the beginning itself when our relationship started. When we got drunk the last night, we threw caution to the winds. We loved, we were one. That night. That's the night we made you.

Then, the next day, he left. It was as though we were strangers. Your father and I. Father. I never thought I would see him in that role. Yet I never expected in 23years to turn into a mother either. Me, who was so vehemently opposed to marriage and who was terrified at the business of raising a child. However, when I finally found out at the end of the month that I have...company, your company, I was happy. I was enthusiastic and in tears with joy. I wanted you. A single, unwed mother I could be but I wanted you.

Baby, I didn't tell your father till I saw him just three days ago. This was the middle of my seventh month, beginning of the last trimester with you. He guessed it by himself to be honest. He was amazed, scared, angry and upset. With me baby, not you. Because I hadn't told him about you, because I had hidden you. I never realized how angry he could be.

He wanted me to marry him then and there. He said that it was his duty and he couldn't let me have you all on my own. I fought baby. I'm sorry but I did. I told him that it was he who had left out of his own choice and that when I came to this discovery a month later, I didn't know how to reach him. He caught me out on our lie, telling about friends...old friends whom I hadn't seen since six months but hadn't lost touch with.

We fought bitterly for one day and that night found your father sharing my bed again, baby, with you and me in it. I still didn't agree to the register marriage. Two days baby, you were there with us in the bed.

I lost you today morning. May 1, Saturday, 7.17am. We lost you. You brought us back together and then you too left, baby. I think this trait you share from us both - leaving. We loved you so much. We wanted you. I'm still devastated.

Your father asked me to go out with him later after seeing my gynecologist. That's the doctor I see to take care of you baby. But you're not there anymore.

Baby, I still love you. I'm sad that I couldn't nurture you enough inside me. I don't know if you will have a brother or sister in the future baby. But you were, are, our first. You'll always be special.

And if the Earth lets you hear my tears now, please come back to us again. We won't fail you, we'll try not to. But give us another chance.

Also, baby, thank you. Thank you for bringing your father back to me, even if it is for an unknown period of time. Heavens only know how much I loved him and still do. Heavens and you. I love you too baby.

Be safe, wherever you are.

*Author's note: This is purely fictional.

They say happiness is a choice...

They say happiness is a choice.
And it is. When I choose you,
For all those smiles, the comfort,
The quiet moments, the walks,
The unexpected flowers,
₹1 toffees which mattered more
Than a galaxy or a milky way.
Because it told me you thought.
Of me.

They say happiness is a choice.
Or is it? When I choose you,
Over and over again,
Wordless fights, overwhelming silence,
Pointed ignorance and avoidance,
Classic hiding among others,
No expression, no communication,
But you still come back finally.
To me.

They say happiness is a choice.
Is it? When we try to figure things out,
When words unsaid loom over us,
When the guarded pauses are loaded
With tears, as of yet, by both, unshed,
When the end is inevitable but
Always, always, postponed,
Like a difficult final assignment
Long overdue.

They say happiness is a choice.
And it is - When we are fighting for
Each other instead of grabbing the
Other's throat, pushing to walls,
Dragging down by hair,
Clawing, screaming, animalistic mess;
When we fight to keep each other,
Not to lose one other by the
Month's end.

They say happiness is a choice.
Or is it? When my long road of dreams
And the sparks of happiness rest
Awaiting the reply of a single man,
Giving him the power of Lord to decide
Whether I die with him or live without,
Giving him the power of fate to decree
Whether I am privileged to share his life,
And him, mine.

They say happiness is a choice.
It is. I'm choosing now on my own,
Gods be damned.
Maybe we were too good for each other.
Maybe we burnt too high.
The flames had to die someday,
There is no warm house for us,
Only cold separate ways. No us now,
Just you, me.

Workaholic

You do not see the tears
That trickle down every night,
After you leave the bed cold;
The only warmth being her work,
She turns to it more.

Then it starts to kill,
A kind of addiction,
A sort of escape,
Where mechanical routine
Is soul numbing - she doesn't feel -

At least, not anymore.

Layers after layers of paper
Smother her in her dreams;
The darkness which comes with it,
The high she gets off it,
All seems worth to hide the pain.

Piles after piles of books,
Miles and miles of faces,
Confused smiles and angry glares,
To work is to be free of the mob,
To be free of the anxiety and pain -

Yet it kills her, each second, a little more.

You do not see her broken spirit
Reflected in her now lifeless eyes,
The bed you left cold long ago,
But now you're back
Just to say goodbye.

The cold machine she has turned into,
The iron fist which she exerts in her field,
The drinks and weed she avoids,
Only to drown herself in more sheets,
Realise that you're the reason she's there -

A workaholic in her cold and lonely despair.