Dreamt about you last night again
a hazy cloud far from reach
drowning in a sea of doubts
I watched you walk away
till your silhouette dissolved into a tiny dot.

dreamt about you last night again
bedsheet crumpled in clenched hands,
woke up with a wounded heart
into a world of  reasoning
a heavy heart, hungry eyes

and a sea of doubts without you.




I learned the word ‘compromise’

I learned the word ‘compromise’
A word so foreign to my adolescent ears,
An immigrant to my lips.
I learned the word ‘compromise’
Happiness, I was told, begets from it.
Begets from it? I repeated in confusion
How is it so when you put your heart out,
Lower it in a box, bury it away.
I learned the word ‘compromise’
It had a lot to do with feeling empty.
Actions without emotions,
Words without weight
I learned the word ‘compromise’
And I learned how to fade away.

Used emotion

I’m a used emotion
Splattered on the canvas.
Pollock’s fantasy, Rembrandt’s nightmare.
Violently thrown on the canvas
I explode into a gazillion specks of pain
Devoured by the canvas,
I seep into bottomless emptiness.
My purpose served, my services rendered.
Put aside in a corner of ugliest memories.
Headless birds gather over the remnants.
The canvas collects dust.
Like organs on a battlefield,
I’m left to decay.
Meant to be used,
I’m an emotion that no longer breathes.

The remains

spinning out of control
once more,
let an empty universe swallow you.
If you don’t swim you’ll drown,
But what if drowning becomes your paradise?
You think the unthinkable,
heart bursting for freedom.
The freedom you never knew.
The skin that was once your home
lies abandoned now.

lights turn off one by one,
darkness invades every room,
the house starts disappearing
In a desperate frenzy, you take off your clothes,
arms wrapped around yourself.
searching for your identity;
that ceased to exist long ago.

like an abandoned home
your skin no longer breathes
nostalgia has forgotten itself.
so you lay silently, lay down your armor
let the abandonment hurt you
emptiness swallow you.

A brief open letter

Here's to the boys who wear pink
play with dolls without a trace of shame
cry without grace.
Manning up isn't their thing,
they would rather put flowers in their hair,
pull off eye liner like a pro.
here's to the skinny boys who bruise themselves,
learning ballet instead of fighting.
wearing their skins with contentment,
than hanging them in a closet of shame.
here's to the boys 
gentle and kind, who
understand love is more than sex,
crave for a universe within a soul.
here's to the boys
who are unapologetically themselves.



She was a lot of things.
A pencil one day,
for him to use till it shrank into nothing.
A clean soap to cleanse his demons;
a grimy dirty bar it remained eventually.
Unrecognizable, unidentifiable.

Apricot in the night,
its juicy flesh eaten 
greedily, viciously.

She was a lot of remarkable things,
catering to his daily needs.
Countless lifeless objects. 
It must be a sweet illusion,
a figment of memory
that she ever was a person.

night visitors

buried my head in the pillow 
the girls inside me cried.
opened my mouth and they all came out.
one by one,
they barged out.
transient freedom enveloped us
oh joy!
the night wrapped us in her arms
we watched movies
and lay in the dark
a constellation of thoughts.
we played with our imaginations
spun them like threads in our heads.
hushed voices, childish giggles,
we conspired against the world.
but daylight sneaked upon us,
in a terror the girls fled
one by one,
in they went back inside me.
and i woke up 
to find my self alone again