warm mornings consume me like hellfire,

soft beads of sweat cling to me like drops of life.

i caress a dying dream with my bare hands,

let its shards pierce my fingertips and

feel the pain shoot swiftly up my throat.

the moon eases the ache sometimes,

the sun is ruthless.

i find you in the back of my eyelids when i

close my eyes,

i find you in the scent of the rain find you

in the colour pink.

i find you in long miserable evenings find you

in brief moments of bright love.

i find you on the brink of midnight find you

on the cusp of noon.

i find you in suffocating darkness find you

in the air that i breathe.

i find you in the slightest of joys.

i find you in the softest of sorrows.

i find you in everything i do.

i find myself when i find you.

how shameless it is to have you slice my heart open

and watch it bleed out every day,

how outrageous to enjoy it still.

i let the blood pool around the organ let it

stain my nails let it seep through my skin let it-

love gnaws at my insides like a vicious animal,

i would give it up for nothing.

the grief of your absence greets me like an old friend

and i embrace her like she never left.

the absence of your grief pulls my chest apart

and fills it with beauty.

love infests my wounds like a tapeworm,

i would give it up for nothing.

warm mornings make me sick,

sunlight makes my stomach churn.

i caress a dying dream with my bare hands,

let its shards pierce my fingertips and

feel the pain shoot swiftly up my throat.

love knifes it way straight through my flesh,

i regret nothing.

how desperate it is to have loved you for so long,

how terribly crushing to not have you still.

decembers are the hardest of all.

often i lie down on my back

and let my blood turn cold let my blood

freeze to death.

i've never been less content or more lonely-

there are no more beautiful things.

sometimes i cannot seethe at my misery.

sometimes i look at you and my heart gets so full

sometimes you look back and i crumble down

like dust.

my fingers ache for a touch of your skin.

my heart longs to be loved back.

the winter air smells like cheap old mattresses and

stale death. i cut my wrists and bleed out red

red christmas.

i look inside my throat and claw out veins in disgust.

in the night

sometimes i dream of cradling you in my arms

sometimes i wake up and cry.

(is this what Yeats said was love? that bastard)

love is a laughable thought and yet

i write in the dark on yellow dog-eared pages hoping

love will find me hidden away

in the folds of your flesh one day.

(trivial, trivial

words are blasphemous when love is god)

sometimes I smile quietly at you

sometimes you smile back and slowly,

slowly i break down into tiny little pieces-

digestible, (and perhaps slightly) loveable.

(Yeats always did know what he was talking about.

that bastard)

feeble candles burn themselves out to death,

(hard cold flesh burns and reeks

in their motherly warmth)

and bury themselves in blue fondue.

someone picks them up gently between two fingers

and harshly throws them away.

(there's something nauseating about dead candles)

somewhere, a song stops playing.

somewhere, the evening ends.

they adjust their dark coats and shake my hand,

the lights are slowly departing.

my history teacher says communists are dry and

so is their history and i spit on the ground.

(and so does che).

young blood spills on rough concrete.

yellow leaves fall from the sky onto my terrace

in the night like ill crows

and whisper to me that autumn

is almost here and i cry myself to sleep.

yellow leaves never lie.

august passes away quickly

and i mourn for it sometimes.

(in a dream, i walk over august's dead body,

and it waves back).

pretty pretty words were strangled

inside my throat and trampled under heavy feet

(i hear them shaking like broken glass

sometimes)

in moist july nights.

september promises to be harsher.

this time, there is a finality with which

dark coats are adjusted and hands shook.

the lights are slowly departing.

i.

and there is something cold about the way

dry fingers burn on rusty stoves.

there is something sweet about how

flesh shrivels-

the woman bleeds

within these four walls-

no, the woman will bleed here,

always.

ii.

it was a cold cold morning

when it had been passed on to me,

there was something cruel about how

the note was crippled and-

but she had smiled at me;

i had liked how her lips felt against my cheek-

it had reeked of finality.

that was the last time i saw

aunt z.

iii.

it was a hot hot morning

when the note was opened.

aunt z had been beaten to

death and the note

reeked of warm blood

now.

easy cake recipe (for beginners)

i could see how her pale frail

fingers had scribbled it.

iv.

ingredients:

2 sticks unsalted butter (room temperature)

3 cups all-purpose flour

1 tablespoon baking powder

1/2 teaspoon salt

1 1/4 cups sugar

4 large eggs, at room temperature

1 tablespoon vanilla extract

1 1/4 cups whole milk (or 3/4 cup heavy cream mixed with 1/2 cup water)

-whisk 3 cups flour, the baking powder and salt in a bowl. whisk until they no longer cry. whisk until every last breath is crushed from their ribs. beat 2 sticks butter and the sugar in a large bowl with a mixer on medium-high speed. beat until the bleed to death, like-

no, until they are light and fluffy, yes. about three minutes. three minutes are enough to kill a woman. three minutes are enough to scream out in terror. three minutes are enough to be not heard (or are they?). beat for three minutes. now reduce the mixer speed to medium, (the neighbours must not hear). leave the mix alone, dead things don't talk; now beat in the eggs, one at a time, slowly, deliberately, scraping down the bowl as needed. beat in the vanilla. It must not reek of dead flesh under the sofa. beat in the flour mixture in 3 batches, Head Torso Legs alternating with the milk, beginning and ending with flour, until just smooth.

v.

and there is something rotten-

no, why must there always be something,

there is nothing left.

rotten rotten air

breathes

breathes

down on my neck.

sour metal glints like stars and

blood under floodlights

(or does it? and if it does or if it doesn't then why

does it and why doesn't it?)

above

me,

and there is something

incomplete about.

pale light enters

around the edges-

slowly, hesitantly,

and gets sucked into the

darkness.

(can the dark suck in the light?

and if it can or if it can't then why

can it and why can't it?)

& there is something cruel

about the way nails

scratch grey metal

and how it screams back

in terror.

the fragility of the air is breathtaking

& there is is something odd

about the way yellowgreen lights

press against my nostrils

and how this dying night smells

of decay.

(can something so alive reek so

outrageously of death?

and if it-

no. when does it end?)

& what happens if

the walls crumble down

before the life in me

seeps out through my eyes.

and i feel it

erode out of me-

cold cold blood

runs in my veins

and i feel my insides

dry up to a crisp;

but surely, this is death.

or is it? and if it is.

i.

the sun rises over the valley and

bathes her in gold.

and we’ve cradled her in our very arms,

pinched thin stripes of sunlight out of white air

and fed her pure madness.

we’ve folded her edges and

pressed out the creases.

combed her greasy brown hair

and dressed her up for school.

and we’ve kissed her on the cheek,

lisped her name in quiet whispers-

jannat.

somewhere, a child is born

somewhere, an old bird dies

somewhere, the light fragrance

of tea and leftover wazwan erupts

in a small motel restaurant

and takes the valley by storm.

somewhere, the quiet peace shatters.

somewhere, a storm approaches.

ii.

and it was five in the morning

when she woke up to watch in silence

as the men in green walked on her-

wet, dewy grass crushed to paste

under blackheeled blackboots

trampled under sync-

leftright leftright leftright left

barbed-wire fences hung

like christmas lights in backyards.

somewhere, a child was born

somewhere, an old bird died,

somewhere, the stench of fresh blood

and burnt flesh wafted through the air.

her greasy brown hair was plucked off her scalp-

one strand at a time.

her oceanblue eyes were blinded

with rubber pellets,

the sound of metallic bullets rung through her ears,

and as all hell broke loose,

kashmir crumbled underneath.

iii.

father flinches a little as he

reads the news, then shakes his head

in dissappintment.

‘bloody musalman terrorists’

he whispers and sips cold cold tea

from a porcelain cup.

a thousand miles away,

a billion birds flock together

to scream of unexplicable injustice.

iv.

and kashmir was dragged on the streets

in the death of the night, mid-song

by her collar for the world to see-

naked. she wept under the apple trees-

(leftright leftright leftright left)

and kashmir was unfolded,

bit by bit, broken into swallowable pieces

for the world to devour.

somewhere, a child was killed

somehwhere, the fragile smell of death

erupted in a small motel restaurant

and took the valley by storm.

and now as we suckle on her teeth for words,

as we kneel on the ground beside her

the soil that holds the blood,

the soil that demands freedom,

she begs us for freedom

آزادی

and if freedom is what you want

then freedom is what you’ll get,

kashmir, mi amor.

vile fragrance of dying lilacs

infesting slowly-

wafting through cold white air

stings my throat. coughs

come out, sliced at thin angles

jarring vocal cords.

i breathe.

it brushes past my warm cheek,

His hand: i shudder.

something tingles down my spine the poets

call it love but we

say it like it is: dread.

His mouth smells of rotting grapes-

of old spirits that mother says not to touch

ever. He opens his eyes- bloodshot bloodshot

spits out greed no-

lust. red lust that clings to you

like cellophane.

He scratches His grizzly beard.

dizzy hands touch me: His hands-

wrinkled, old, with fear trapped

in the creases of His skin but he calls it

trust. 

they move down: slowly, swiftly.

i dig my nails inside my palms

bite my tongue and blood spurts out

like the fountains at the mall-

sicksweet sicksweet blood i let it

stay let it flow around

my mouth let it stain my teeth let it

stain my soul. 

He watches me

naked in my utter shame-

He smiles He steps closer

closer to me.

His lips neatly sliced into a macabre grin-

He spits in my face.

thick thick saliva-

tastes like rusty metal i

wipe it and He 

laughs.

He digs His claws

in the back of my rib it

hurts and black black blood drips 

on the stark white floor-

is this what we call art?

and if we do-

no deep breath deep breaths 

i feel the life evaporating out of my lungs

i feel my veins surrendering my

eyes blurring and-

is this what they call beauty?

i pass out.

i move around-

float around the darkness.

i let it engulf me 

i let it tear me apart.

and i think i’m alone but-

i open my eyes.

i feel the floor beneath my head

am i dead? no this isn’t eden.

or is it?

i feel Him moving

inside me i feel Him

grunt.

somewhere, i hear pens scribbling.

somewhere, an infant dies.

somewhere, i hear music.

mozart presses against my burning flesh

and flows in my veins.

i sense a crescendo

(and the life slowly seeping out)

and with every note it

becomes harder to breathe harder

to hold on.

it grows it grows it grows and 

i smile i see mozart i see him close his eyes

and here-

here i witness me dying here

a requiem.

nostalgia sticks to the roof of my mouth

my tongue excitedly flaps around chapped lips

sounds of whirring printers and cackling staplers

ring in my ears, i tap my fingers on the desk-

half-chewed fingernails on moth-eaten wood,

unhinged tubelights flicker above

and i wander off to dusty memories

of when i was made of milk-toothed youth

and phosphorus, coiled like a fetus in

porcelain bathtubs filled to the brim

with lukewarm water.

/

stuffy car rides in summers/ sticky fingers/

made of saccharine and/ honey flavoured toffees/

the sun glinted/ through hardened glass windows/

leather seats/ that burned their souls/

plastic waterbottles/ that sang in their watery voices/

air conditioners/ spewed out icy air/

bryan adams/ bled out of the broken radio/

beads of sweat/ crawled through father’s eyebrows/

i wiped my forehead/ with the back of my hand/

moved my tongue gently/ across the rough surface/

of sharp-edged rock candies/ bobbed my head to soft rock/

and it sat there/ hidden beneath seat covers/

packed under bottlenecks/ muffled by lip-syncing lips/

heartbreak/ fleeting childhood/

/

i swiftly move my fingers through reams of paper,

licking the pale fingertips that taste like starch and death.

my mouth dry like sawdust.

i light up a cigarette,

melancholy madness rises up with heavy,

tobacco-laden smoke.

she enters my ribs.

armed with the ghosts of my childhood,

sweeping gently my diaphgram,

sweet death.

she gnaws at my liver, my right lung,

breaks it into swallowable cubes-

death is a woman, always.

/

the air was thick/ with jealousy/

yellow coloured/ school buses/

staggering up slowly to the hills/ to remote cottages/

on overpriced school trips/

the seats were torn at the edges/ they spat out yellow foam/

overweight children/ shuffled out of the metal doors/

stretching their arms/ plastic wrappers crunched under their feet/

we slept in warm camps/ in groups of four/

there was something sad/ about the way she had smiled/

i had loved her then/

the chemical taste of sandwiches/ burned through the air/

warm tomatoes and soggy bread/ mixed with amylase/

naked bodies floated around/ in chlorine-rich pools/

i wanted to drown/

and once again/

beneath piles of woolen clothes/

masked under the smell of tomatoes and chlorine/

there it was/ heartbreak/

i cried myself to sleep/ that night/

no one left school trips/ unscathed/

/

the night is young,

i make my way slowly to the subway,

soft fog looks pretty under

purple neon city lights.

i rub my palms together-

it’s cold outside.

it’s cold inside.

i rub i rub i

rub.

/

sickly smell of soft drinks/ swept through the air/

happy birthday/ the banner said in a happy font/

he blew the striped candles/ drops of saliva/

stuck to the frosting/ it was vanilla/

his mother/ plucked out the candles/

remnants of cake clung themselves/ to the wax/

i would lick them off/ later/

the walls faded/ to a pale yellow/

chairs screeched/ afraid of being dragged around/

i wore a checkered shirt/ red and blue/

wiped my wet hands/ on the soft fabric/

we were served/ cold noodles and warm cake/

i had gulped down the carbohydrates/ shamelessly/

fat thighs burned/ filled to the brim with lactic acid/

the air was moist/ something loomed over us/

mingling with the humidity/ something hideous/

/

i switch on the lights.

the room glows up in yellow illumination,

i wipe my moist eyes with the back of my sleeve-

i have left something behind,

and replaced it with the grief

of unborn memories.

and once again

i sleep through dimesions

and wake up in vibrant thoughts-

i had always hated the dark.

and once again i was floating

through/ faint yellow birthday-walls/

red wax candles/ i loved to lick/

through yellow school buses/ with the pain peeling off of them/

through old pages/ of worn out leather diaries/

through muddy playgrounds/ in monsoons/

falling off bicycles/ on hard concrete roads/

through broken toes/ that bled so crimson/

through cracked lips/ and torn tongues/

the lips had bled/ and i had sucked on them/

i had loved the sicksweet taste/ that reminded me of home/

and yes/

this is home/ this is home/ this is

home/

first of all, this is only for the wtw folks, so prosers feel free to ignore this. Now, most of you have read anoushka’s post on how she was removed for making the catlover101 account and ‘cyberbullying’. welp, as it turns out, the admins do not have a good sense of humour.

i was also involved in the catlover incident. and i have been thrown out too. i tagged some people to make sure that it had happened, and it had. so might as well come clean.

anoushka told me about it and i loved the idea, so i reached the comment section and told her how the verses she had in her message to readers were my favourite. and that i love satire. that's it. they labelled it as cyberbullying and removed me. now honestly, i had it coming. and most of you know it. coincidentally, i had decided to post 'crumbling faith/matthew' on the same day and was completely prepared to be removed for it. however, the reason was something else. the point is, i knew i was about to be expelled that day. i expected. although the reason does irk me, and the fact that they removed anoushka's account is outrageous. so anyway, that was it, rant over. i am okay with the account being disabled, though it would've been great if they had left the pfp on. i loved the pfp. i will still be on prose and instagram, so you can find me there. for those of you who were confised about the incident, this was it. thank you everyone, y'all have been a great joy to work with. and i still can't believe i reached a hundred followers there.