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August 2016

When My Daughter Asks Me If She’s Beautiful..

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I will tell my daughter to look in the mirror so deep that she feels the world around her fading from the sides and only she remains in focus. 

I will tell her how this world would never care about how many books you read or how beautifully you can put your views about this world in front of the people.

I will tell her no matter how pure her soul is or not matter how accepting her heart is, she will always be measured in pounds and kgs. 

I will tell her that this world will give her a thousand people who see only with their eyes, I’ll ask her to hold onto to the one who sees with their soul.

I will tell her to not wear flowers in her head because this world will only care for that flower and not the head that makes it more beautiful.

I will tell her not to place that last piece of brownie back in the bowl just because some woman stared at her like it was the end of this world and she reached out for the last piece of food.

I will tell her to wear her body as an armour, ready for any battle. 

I will tell her to shed all the façade only when you are sure of your soul being taken care of. 

I will tell her to love her body just as much as I loved mine or tried to when I was her age.

I will tell her to swear off any man who keeps her body first. 

I will tell her how she has been born from a star and she’s nothing less than one incandescent body.

I will tell her how the universe strived to make her what she is and how what one boy says does not matter.

I will tell her to wait for that one person who sees her and despite her being cracked from places, holds all her pieces together. 

And even if she still doesn’t believe that she is not what the society calls “beautiful”, I will tell her that there will be times when she won’t believe that she is because the people said so. There will be times when she’ll open a magazine and point out each flaw in her when compared to the model.

There will be times when people will tell her to adjust her pieces according to the norms of the society and them, I’ll tell her to remember how a puzzle seems like a broken piece of cardboard to a person who only sees the broken piece of cardboard.

Image :Flickr

How To..

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Do nothing.

Sleep, wake up then sleep again repeat this as many times as you want, let the oscillating blades of your fan be the first and the last thing you see, the whole day.

Flip the tear soaked pillows, flip them over and over and over and over again until you find that one tiny spot which is not stained.

Go to the place you first met, light up a cigarette or two or the whole packet. Smoke. Till the air coming out of your nostrils form their face. Smoke till your hands burn and till your lungs catch fire.

Lay on your back, listen to every goddamn sad song you have. Let the salty water run through your scars, let the skin burn, that’s how they’ll heal.

Stand in the shower for however long it takes to wash their touch from your body. Let the water cleanse your soul.

Keep a stack of whiskey ready, for when the time comes your limbs won’t move, but your mouth would want to reach out to the mouth of the bottle as if it were his mouth.

Kiss as many mouths you want to to forget what it felt like to kiss his.

Drink as many cups of coffee as you need to stay awake, tape your eye lids to your forehead if need be, because you’ll expect to roll over and find him but there won’t be anything but void.

Write. Fill the pages of diaries. Write, till you’ve used up every word to describe how it feels to hold yourself with tape and glue. Write, till your fingers bleed on the pages. Write till you forget. Write to forget.

Decide to go out, dress up, cancel, change to sweats, stay at home, order Chinese, put on a sappy movie and cry in your chicken noodle soup.

And after you’ve done all of this do it all over again, because it’s not about making yourself okay, it’s about telling yourself that you were okay before they came, because even if you are a little bent out of shape, it’s still you in there, because you don’t need to apologize for loving till your insides reeked of him, because you never have to be ashamed of pouring yourself out in front of the wrong people, because you can always ask for your pieces back.

Because no one has ever been able to succeed a heartbreak and there is a slight possibility that you won’t either.

Fire

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Bend your chest open, let me through the labyrinth of your rib cage
making my way towards the far end
where in a small dark corner
your heart resides.

I walk with fire burning on my finger tips
to brighten up my path,
it’s a long way to your heart but
my flames are inextinguishable.

I see scars and parts of it missing
some broken some loosely fixed and
some on the ground. 
I want to pick them all up
put them back together,
make it whole again.

Used to the cold touch, it quivers as the warmth from my flames advance. 

I secretly wish for it to burn completely
I can rebuild it with the ashes
like the Phoenix rising gracefully.
I can change it to Vermilion
it has been purple for far too long.

I can see myself out as soon as I pump my heat into it to enkindle it.

I take a few steps back 
taking full responsibility of the arson and watching it rise andante maestoso.

I wish I could stay and watch but my flames are still ablaze and you wouldn’t want a heartburn.

It Hits You Like A Train

It hits you like a train.

You weren’t even planning on standing at that station and it hits you like a train.

Saturday morning, coffee in one hand and the newspaper in another and it hits you like a train

The toasts burn, coffee remains spilled on the floor and you do not know what to do with your hands anymore.

The buttons on your shirt are all in the wrong holes, the pants don’t match and you forget how to walk.

Maybe the world is spinning too fast maybe it’s you but you have nothing to hold on to.

The computer screen remains blank because suddenly it’s midnight in your head and all the lights go off.

It hits you like a train. Someone splashes the puddle water on you and drives away and you stand still trying to open your mouth to scream but nothing comes out.

The words seem to have lost somewhere, but you don’t have the keys to your house let alone words to your thoughts.

It hits you like a train.

Phone. Text. E-mail. Your fingers type the same words 27 times, erase them 30 times, words fall off the screen.

It hits you like a train. Did you turn the lights off before slipping into the bed, who can tell? It’s dark anyway.

It hits you like a train, the same train they sat on and went and never returned.