Sometimes it's on the tip of my tongue ...the moment when you scared me the most

In moments of fury-

I want to tell you

...because I know it would hurt

In moments of honesty -

I want to tell you

...but I know it would hurt

Am I sparing you?

Or am I being dishonest?

Sometimes I ache to speak, to part my lips and let the words flow forth

To clear the festering hurt

Because I was scared (so scared)

But...I know you didn't know

And if I speak

... the regret will fester in you forever

And I know you didn't know

I know-

You love me with your everything

and that confession would hurt

So maybe I am sparing you

But I'm sparing myself too

... of causing you that hurt

So I shut my mouth

Bite my lips, bite back words

And-

my hurt lingers

Forever- like a breath caught in my chest

I suppose it was simply a choice

Between my eternal torment or yours

And I choose the ache in my chest

... everyday

Sometimes it's on the tip of my tongue

...the moment when you scared me the most

In moments of fury-

I want to tell you

...because I know it would hurt

In moments of honesty-

I want to tell you

...but I know it would hurt

Am I sparing you?

Or am I being dishonest?

Sometimes I ache to speak, to part my lips and let the words flow forth

To clear the festering hurt

Because I was scared (so scared)

But...I know you didn't know

And if I speak

... the regret will fester in you forever

And I know you didn't know

I know-

You love me with your everything

and that confession would hurt

So maybe I am sparing you

But I'm sparing myself too

... of causing you that hurt

So I shut my mouth

Bite my lips, bite back words

And-

my hurt lingers

Forever- like a breath caught in my chest

(I suppose it was simply a choice

Between my eternal torment or yours

And I choose the ache in my chest

... everyday)

It’s dark outside.

The world slumbers, all too comfortable to wake up, yet.

Some like you though, battle the waves of sleepiness for they have work to attend to.

Work, even if it’s still dark outside.

You grab your phone to just stop the incessant ringing.

I’m up, damnit.

You sit up as the world returns to blissful silence.

The cozy moment lingers for a second, when your face is hit by sharp air.

Shivering slightly, you rub your hands together to warm the frozen digits.

Time to get up.

You get out of bed, even as your entire body protests against it.

Quietly, you pad into the kitchen to put on a pot of tea.

The tea boils as you sluggishly go through your daily activities.

Pouring the tea into your favorite mug, you sit down for a moment.

Cradling the mug with both hands, you allow its warmth to seep into your fingers.

And for a while, it’s just you and the warm mug of tea– as you steal a few peaceful moments before the chaotic day begins...

“I’m very happy. He keeps me safe.”

It was small things. Small, precious gestures.

Asking her about her day, her friends; taking an interest in her life.

Tight hugs, an arm around her waist– warm and strong.

.

.

.

“I’m very happy. He keeps me safe.”

She wasn’t very close with her friends after all, and they were only using her, like he said.

It was okay. And now she had more time to spend with him.

He loved her most.

He protected her, kept a check on her.

His hugs were a little tighter, but it was okay.

He loved her.

.

.

.

“I’m very happy. He keeps me safe.′

He did.

Even from herself– her mistakes, her failures.

The marks on her body didn’t mean anything, they were just a reminder to better herself.

For her own good.

(“I hate doing this to you, love.”)

For her own good.

(“I love you”)

He loved her.

And it wasn’t something a little makeup couldn’t hide.

.

.

.

Whispers echoed in the room. The room– completely bare– for the solitary figure huddled up in a corner.

Too wide, frantic eyes looked around wildly.

A desperate chant spilled forth from chapped lips–

“I’m happy.

He keeps me safe. I’m happ-”

Happiness surrounds me

in small moments--

Small moments, long moments

Joyful moments, angry moments

Hurt moments, happy moments...

... In an image of life...

The image flickers

before my eyes

replaced by its ghosts--

The ghosts of my home

My home-- the people in my heart

So I blink

I blink and grab--

Grab onto time

Grab onto their worryingly fragile human bodies

Snatch them in long hugs

and press on tightly--

-- In long hugs and small brushes...

I press close enough to hear the steady rhythm

The thankfully steady 'thump-thump' of their hearts

Of my hearts...

Taking a shuddering breath,

I smile--

And smile...

...until the moment flickers again

Your stomach is hurting. Again.

A persistent ache which doesn’t go away even with the dozens of pills you’ve taken.

You sigh. You don’t want to do this, but there’s no other option.

Slowly you undo the chains that have been wound around you for ages.

You look over to inspect the damage.

Ah.

There it is.

Rejection.

Rejection looks like red.

Red mixed with a lot of black, both coexisting, without affecting each other.

The red is thin, watery thin though it looks slimy at first glance.

It cannot be anything but thin.

It does not cling to your skin as you touch it, for it is artificial, thin.

It smells sour, sour like the sauce in the cupboard you forgot about, the paste which has long since gone bad.

It smells sour, mingled with a waft of ink.

The comforting smell of ink which comes from the black swirling lazily along the red.

The black is thick.

Thick with anger and desperation and hurt...and the words left unsaid.

Those words which will never leave your lips.

The black feels pleasant.

Warm and cool at the same time, like the paint you used for hand art, making messy splotches across the white canvas.

The black welcomes you.

But you cannot stay.

The black is tempting, alluring...

The black offers the one thing which you won’t allow yourself to have - freedom.

F

R

E

E

D

O

M

You draw your hand back with a gasp.

Carefully, very carefully you allow the chains to wound around.

Again.

Burnt toasts and ginger tea

A time-old page tucked beneath

Chocolate tresses, windswept

Sweet hazel orbs ...like raw honey

... Life's sweet flavours of mahogany

Ten inbox messages

Ten unread inbox messages

Is it just me or the phone seems heavier nowadays?

My fingers too numb?

The call button too far away?

Ten inbox messages

For me?

I’m surprised they responded

Though we do share a past

A past of smiles and arguments and notes passed in class

I... am surprised they responded

Because the past is... in the past

Ten inbox messages

A constant vague pressure in my head

It wouldn’t even take five minutes

Just five minutes to reply or probably make a call...

Five minutes to tell them I miss them and I still cherish the times we spent together

...Five endless minutes

Ten inbox messages

Still waiting

Unread

I want to reply

Because I do miss them

Value them

But, not yet-

Not now.

For now...it is just me

Just me and the phone which seems too heavy...

I hate you.

I hate you when you stare into my soul and make me feel naked and ... so... vulnerable...

I hate that I want to feel vulnerable with you...

I hate the way your lips curve slowly into a smile, going all the way to the wrinkles around your eyes... making me feel like I’d tear the world to see you smile like that once again...

I hate the way my breath catches seeing the fire in your eyes, burning me with their light...

I hate the way I want to become a better person, make the world a better place, for you, to be your equal...

I hate the way we argue and fight and still I’d forgive you in an instant if you asked me to...

I hate the way you make me feel so powerless and yet so powerful all at the same time...

I hate you.

I hate it when you are in pain, because of me or because of something else...

I hate it when someone treats you less than you deserve, and you allow it...

I hate it when you feel you deserve less than you do...

I hate you when you don’t use your potential, when you have so much to offer...

I hate it when you are haunted by things that I don’t understand

When you don’t tell me about those things that I don’t understand...

I hate you.

I hate you when you are petty and immature and selfish and so human that I just can’t digest it...

Then I hate myself for hating you...

I hate it when reality slaps my face telling me that you are not perfect... and I hate myself for slapping reality back saying that

I wouldn’t have you any other way...

Where do these words come from, the words that I write?

They come from my memory

But isn’t my memory yours?

Doesn’t it come from the words you said?

You, you and you?

Him, her and them?

Then... what is truly mine and what is yours?

The ideas in my mind, which fall onto a screen... aren’t they some mangled form of the words I’ve heard ,or read perhaps, issuing from you?

A hundred voices echo in a sentence of mine...

Mine?