If I hadn’t met you, I’d probably be a wife and a mother by now.
I’d be sensible, responsible, and answerable.
I’d be a good woman, middle class in both my mannerism and thought.
I’d be less of a recluse, and not know how to rebel all the way.
I’d accommodate more. I’d compromise more.
I’d be less sarcastic, perhaps more optimistic.
I’d make plans, take vacations, or sit at home, but I’d never be alone.
I’d make mistakes and stupid decisions.
I’d think less, be less confused.
I’d follow the blueprint of a conventional, traditional life.
I’d post stories on social media, click photos with cherry blossoms, and put on display the joy a cheap cone of ice cream brought.
I’d walk on beaches, go on long drives, and arrange play dates for my kids.
I’d be more money minded and find joy in things that money could buy.
I’d live and lose for others, if only to compensate for my insecurities.
I’d never be brave enough or have the time to be myself.
I’d be like anyone else, ordinary.
If I hadn’t met you, I would’ve never met the me
I had always hoped I’d be.-
The other day I spent hours looking in the mirror
Hoping to see what you saw when you looked at me
I coloured my lips the way you liked, to feel the lost magic
That once was a plausibly imaginable reality
Mornings when I crave your warmth and hugs and smell
Coffee and cigarettes and distractions fail disastrously
So I drown in showers hot enough to scald my skin
Or eat a brick of ice cream and wait for sugar to kick in
Then there are the keepsakes and trinkets
From trips I was brave enough to take only with you
And a lifetime of photos and poems and letters
That have lived and thrived and died between us
Everyday I skinny dip in my tears, and bleed through my words
Every night I spend awake and restless, dreaming to be with you
You live inside me in a way that makes you untouchable
You live inside me in a way that makes closure impossible-
Your absence exists
in an all consuming way,
unnaturally haunting,
making its way through
my head and bones,
arbitrarily, yet systematically,
cutting through spaces
without a voice, or a body,
yet disturbingly real,
lingering like a specter
to keep me company,
or stop me from having one,
finding home in my words
that have been written,
but never spoken;
your absence exists
in troughs and droves,
disorienting and chaotic;
like a living presence that
doesn’t know when to quit,
it has taken root in my limerence!-
The day doesn’t want anything from you
Neither does the night, nor do the stars
Or the sky or the trees or the shade
The earth doesn’t revolve around the sun
And the moon around the earth
To fit you in the larger scheme of things
Animals don’t care, people less so
Relationships will exist with or without you
As will hunger and death and disease
Words will come together to form stories
Minstrels will sing songs, and clouds rain
Without paying you a second thought
You are small, insignificant, inconsequential
Privy to only those pieces that affect you
Limited by and trapped in what you feel
Hidden in plain sight, effortlessly, carefully
As important as your head allows you to be
You are the ordinary in extraordinary!-
Thank you for taking me in all those years ago. You have been a real companion and a true friend to say the least. You have accompanied me from destination to destination, making space for my utterly disorganised life in your crevices. I have put you through hell - the last minute cramming, running you through airport checkin lines, leaving you at the mercy of baggage handlers and taxi drivers, and worst of all stationing you in the corner of a room for an undetermined time, only lifting your lid long enough so as to flow stuff in and out, day after day with no end in sight. And while I cannot repay the debt, I think it’s time I let you retire and rest. It’s time I unpacked.
-
Words would’ve helped a long time ago
Intent would weigh as much as actions
Benefit of doubt would tip in your favor
A long time ago, when you weren’t a stranger
You said blood is thicker than water
But my solace came from the covenant
When the womb that built me from scratch
Turned my life into a garbage patch
There are no more questions to answer
No condolences, no commiserations
No need for any allegiances to transfer
Nothing to invent, or to rediscover
I was bitter and hateful once upon a time
But you persevered and didn’t let go
You still think it was love but it was a fight
You were in it to win, to break my might
I am sorry for the choices I made
That made you go to war with me
But I am also sorry for my faith in you
To trust you to give me my rightful due-
You exist only in my memories yet
make up for so much of my reality.
I cannot talk to you or see you
but I talk to you and see you all the time.
I do not have your touch but the thought of it
still sends shivers down my back.
If I could I would physically save your smell
and hugs and smile and words and
everything that made you. But I cannot.
So I do the closest thing I can think of.
I save you in me. You made me.
And you still continue to make me.
-
What makes a writer good? Is it the story or the storytelling? I wonder why my writing is so subpar. Is it because I have nothing to say? Or perhaps I have nothing new to say? If I list down my emotions, there are only a few but the square footage on each is a mansion. How does one pen limited yet limitless feelings differently? I don’t know how, so the same words do the rounds. Post after post, quote after quote. And while day after day, I am left feeling something is lacking, I cannot ignore how exceptionally consistent my written word is. And maybe that’s it. Maybe writing consistently, no matter how subpar, is what makes a writer good.
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