To Be Loved Like A Poet Loves its Poem.

She will touch you with fingers so cold you will wonder why ice wasn’t named after her yet she will set your skin ablaze. She will look at you like art piece. Analyze every crease on your face when you laugh and every grimace when something displeases you.

She will look at you like a path that keeps unfolding and she’s treading blind. Oblivious of what’s to come but woefully expectant of what’s ahead. She will explore you. She will show you what’s its like to be loved as a poet loves its poem.
And believe me, she will love you like a poem.
She’s the type to turn you into poetry.

She will see into your eyes and imagine a thousand stars bursting; into dreams that are made up of all that you are, all that you were and all that you are suppose to be. She will consider you a galaxy with shooting stars and meteor showers.

You will tell her things and she will listen to you. And she will stare at you until you tell her how her gaze is so unnerving. But she’s only looking at you like words that are left unsaid because nobody has been courageous enough to write them down on paper yet. Because those are the words not everybody can imagine writing every day.

So she will love you like a poet but you will have to love her back like a poem; gently, kindly and courageously. For a broken heart might shoot ink into her veins but it will kill a part of her, that she will never be able to recover again.

People like her lose their pieces one by one until one day they find themselves empty. After all there is a reason, why poets die young.

(Daily post: Texture, Shimmer, Amble, )


Tell Me. 

How do you sleep with regrets tucked under your pillow?

With its heaviness holding your eyelids down not to sleep; but to punish with remorse.

How do you feel when affliction of your actions take hold of your throat one by one; choking you until you can’t breathe.

How do you feel, tell me how do you feel ? Can you sleep? Can you breathe? Do you have peace?

Do you feel your chest getting crushed under the weigh of it all? Your rib cage tightening, constricting your windpipe. Your heart caving in on itself. Do your lungs comply? Or have they betrayed you too like you betrayed me?

How does it feel, tell me how does it feel? Does your heart beats? And if it beats does it lunges in longing? Does it lunges enough to thump through your chest wall, break bones like you broke me?

Can you get out of bed? And if you can, do your legs carry you far enough to run from the carnage- blood and guts and slaying. Is your jar of hearts finally filled to the brim? Is it spilling? If not, do you need more still? How many more to satiate your thirst for hearts? Tell me.

Do you apologize? Tell me have you said sorry? And if you have, does it changes anything? Does it fix the slew of arteries you ripped apart and countless veins you left to bleed?

Do you feel guilt? And if you do, is it eating you alive the same way you swallowed me? Took my existence from me. Stole me from me. Do you even feel like a thief?

Or, do you hush the voices in your head every night,
Lay your remorses to rest along with the corpses of all those you have murdered,

and go peacefully to sleep?

Tell me.

Hurt Me 






His touch.




(Daily post: Anticipation,  Maddening)


‘Girls like you’ your mother says
‘are going to be disappointed a lot.’
She’s chopping coriander so fast that her hand is a blur
and you’re 12 and you’re standing
like a tremble, grubby knees and tear stained cheeks,
an offering in front of her.

‘Why?’ Your voice is a quiet shake.
She puts the knife down and calls you ‘jaan’
she holds your face in her wet hands,
you don’t flinch because this
is what love looks like
she kisses your forehead like forgiveness
‘because you mean what you say,
you think other people are the same.’
She tells you that she spent four years
trying to learn their language
but people ask how you are
and walk away before you can tell them.
‘I’d rather be silent.’ She says.
‘At least being quiet is honest.’

You’ll come home seven years later
wearing your heart like a bruise
on the inside of your sleeve
‘mama,’ you’ll say, voice like a thunder crack
‘he said he loved me, and I believed him,
I shouldn’t have,
I think that he lied.’
She’ll be older then, but she’ll kiss you
just as tender, just as birdlike.
‘Is it my fault?’ You’ll ask.

She is half lioness, half woman. She is all roar.
‘Listen to me’ she calls you her soul again.
She says it in your language so you know
that she means it.
‘You are so infinitely tender,’ she takes the frown
of your face in her hands and holds it carefully

‘People will not always know what to do with that.
You can’t ever be sorry for the way you loved,
You can’t be sorry for who you loved.
Don’t ever let them bend you backwards
don’t let them make you hard or bitter.’
Her voice turns into a growl

‘You did not get this from me.
Somewhere inside of you there is rain.
Somewhere in your stomach,
something beautiful is growing
and it is infinite.
Don’t you let them try and take that from you,
you are open and you are a flood,
someday someone is going to want to die in you.’

   – “Jaan-E-Maan” by Azra Tabassum

(Jaan-E-Maan means “My Dear” in Persian and “Darling” in Urdu language.)

(Daily Post: Vanish, Sacred )

A Chaos Within








And so, this is you; grieving.

Heart On Fire

“Say it”, I said to him like I wanted it.

“Say what?” He asked like he knew exactly what I was talking about but choose to ask anyway just to stall the inevitable.

“You know what! C’mon free yourself from these chains. The only person you are holding down is yourself at this point. Exempt yourself from this burden.” I said with pastoral face but with a violent frenzy brewing inside me that I didn’t let surface. That threatened to destroy everything in its wake.

He was looking everywhere but at me. His eyes gazing somewhere way past my face. He pursed his lips together and stood there quiet and contemplating for a minute or two. To me it felt like those final moments where your life flashes in front of your eyes before you are hit. I swear in those moments the air between us grew hundred folds heavier. I felt it’s choke-hold around my throat as I struggled to keep a steady breath.

“I don’t love you anymore.” Five words escaped his lips. Rolled through his tongue, covered the distance between us and stabbed me right in the middle of my chest. I took a sharp intake of air as I felt the impact send surge through my body.

(Ripples. Flood. Tide.
Thunder. Riot. Chaos.
Mayhem. Turmoil. Grief.)

With that he threw his shackles away, set himself free.
And now there I stood: chained.

“A man’s heart is a wretched, wretched thing. It isn’t like a mother’s womb. It won’t bleed. It won’t stretch to make room for you.”- Khaled Hosseini, A Thousand Splendid Suns.

//Just a story of a boy who never really loved her//


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( Here and Now )

The HeartBreak

It’s funny how it works, your heart breaks into million little pieces, with sharp edges and cracks are everywhere. You try to pick up those pieces and in the process you cut your hands. So now your hands are bleeding. You get up to wash it and as you stand your feet come in contact with those sharp edges and now your feet are bleeding too. The pain gets unbearable and you fall uncontrollably on those scattered pieces. Now your whole body is covered with wounds, you are bleeding everywhere, every inch of your body is hurting. The pain is unimaginable now but you don’t have any other choice but to get up. Sometimes you wait for a helping hand to pick you up and put on some bandage, lend a soothing touch but you don’t have that luxury either so you try to get up yourself. You stumble and fall, cutting yourself deeper than you did before. Every try you make to stand up only ends up hurting you more but you do it anyway. You stand after all that struggle and manage to get yourself into a corner, Away from those scattered pieces,where you cry endless tears, trying to get hold of this pain that is consuming you. Slowly but surely the bleeding starts to stop, the wounds are still fresh though. You remember you’ve got a heart to mend, so you make your way towards those scattered pieces again. You notice by now some pieces are missing. You frantically search but all in vain so you decide to go ahead without them. You put all those pieces together bit by bit, like pieces of some puzzle, trying to figure out which piece goes where, which piece fits perfectly and which doesn’t have a place anymore,The pieces which are damaged beyond repair. You put days in days trying to put it all together and in the end you have this poorly patched heart, that is missing pieces, that still have cracks on it, unrecognizable. Worst is the missing spaces you have in between, where emptiness lingers. But you have to fill it up with something so sadness comes to help. She makes home in those spaces called ruins. Making herself feel at home, seeping into those oh so familiar spaces, residing and slowly taking over the whole heart. The heart is repaired at last..but it’s forever changed, not the same as before. Never can be and never will be…

It still aches from time to time, sadness becomes too overwhelming and the scars look too ugly. They say It’s up to you whether you wear those scars proudly or hide them underneath a patch. Whether you let the sadness take over or turn it into a beautiful work of art. They say It’s up to you but unfortunately it’s never as easy as that.