Disclaimer: All these years in mirakee and this is my very first collab, that too with the very talented @saya__ . Pardon my flaws, and rejoice her wonderful words. Thank you.
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I cornered myself with the blanket of dinge. Never would I dare to utter about the dark trench of seclusion. All I would be turned into is a meme material along with those trending hashtags of the virtual. The storming thoughts of escaping cracks my heart into thousands of pieces from the remaining hundred, while all I did was listen to every piece falling, continuously shuddering my eardrums and my skull off, bit by bit. And when these roars of their laughter echoes around me, the world spins in circles and I wake up to the new-fangled course, witnessing the faces with fake frowns and worry. I know them all, all of them. They'll show mounted concern whenever I cry, yet won't even look up from their screens to perceive my facade smile.
"I am not feeling okay."
- "Oh, don't worry. Mood swings they are." - "This phase will pass dear, we too have felt like this." They would say.... Well, have you?
This is how my folks respond when I seek for someone to confront.
Let me ask you.. Have you fought with the world whole day long and entered home only to hear about being careful when outside? Have you acted like you don't care when your parents compare you with others? Have you ever heard your parents assuming that they are no more important in your life, when the only reason you are breathing till now is them? Have you faced competition against your siblings, along with the other people? Have you carried a fake smile the entire day, while all you were waiting for is the darkness which would engulf your tears to keep from them seeing? No you didn't. This is not a phase, neither is this an attempt to seek your attention. These are my feelings, all what I go through!
I hope some day someone walks up to me, not to preach, but just to listen and let me believe that all of it will end soon, even if that's a lie.
I saw her again today. The girl with her white hair band, the girl in the last corner of the class. I watch her everyday, as she stares out of the window for hours with that pen twirling between her fingers. I wonder often what she thinks about.
For all I know, that smile of her is just a facade.. I know she is disturbed, she looks tired. But what is she tired of, is it the situation around her? is it her life? or is she tired of herself? I don't know honestly, but I do want to know. I want to talk to her, I always did, who wouldn't want. But may be it will always remain a story about the first step that I am too scared to take.
I watch it when she tells others she is not feeling okay and they laugh it away calling it a mere mood swing. I hate it when people tell her that this phase too shall pass. Cannot they see what I see? Cannot they see what she is going through..? it is is in her eyes, it is in her smile.
I saw her before, she looked so bright that you would literally stop and stare at her. I remember I couldn't stop myself staring at her lips, to notice their shape and curves when they dip. Her eyes, well they were nothing like ours. So deep and bright, they'd make you believe they were stars.
But now she strolls like a dead meat with no hope nor will. And I keep watching her from the corner, hoping if some day our eyes would cross, she would walk up to me. But wouldn't life be easier had there been no ifs' and buts'. Probably I can never tell her how strong she is, probably I can never express how I feel. May be I can never let her see herself from my eyes, may be I can never make her feel good about herself. Yes, may be this will always remain a story about the first step that I never took.
The thought that haunts me the most is that may be, one day you will be the story that I would be telling my kid. When she would be on her bed without food and sleep for days because of that huge hole in her heart, when she would be looking for ways to kill herself, I will just walk up to her. I fear I would have to tell her about you. I will tell her how you met someone when you were fourteen, how you both sat together in class and in no time fell in love. I will tell her how you both dreamt of a future together, how you were a boon to him, yet he left you unfixable. I will tell her how hurt you were and how the pain almost killed you. How you started spending hours in shower and began taking more pills than food. I will tell her how you remained closed in that one room for days.
And I will stroll my arms over her forehead and tell her how it all got over, how it all stopped hurting you eventually. How you began going to school again and listening to happy music. I will tell her how you healed up and became happy again.
But when she asks me who did that to you, I fear I would have nothing to say. I won't tell her how much self hatred her father holds within himself.. I won't tell her why I kept asking her to stay away from men. I won't tell her that there are parts of me which curse me for pushing away the biggest boon of my life. Parts, which wish I could give you back the love you deserved.
I won't tell her about the nights when I get glimpses of your face every time I close my eyes. I won't tell her why I don't go to those old streets anymore, why I skip that one song every time and why I have this ink on my body. I won't tell her that I one used to be the monster that I warn her about. I won't tell her why I drink myself to sleep, or why I have those bruises on my arm. I won't tell her why I write.
But what I would keep telling her is how strong you were. I will tell her that moving on from the wrong person is always the right thing to do.
I have a lot of leftover love in my heart, from all these years of hating myself. And if I can’t keep it for myself, I want to give it to someone else.
Because I can look into someone else’s eyes and see the secrets in them, the misty pools of untold stories and hidden truths. Because when I touch their skin, I feel the soft scars of surviving, I feel where the sun kissed too roughly, where the cut was too deep but stopped just in time. Because when I taste their lips on mine, I can swallow the dust angels left behind when chiseling the smile that lifts me off my feet. And when I hold them in my arms, their body is close but still separate from mine. And I can see their soul burning brightly in front of me, so full of light and life. And I can carry their heart in gentle hands, hold it with care, wrap it in caution tape; these palms can become a shelter. Because I can see so much worth and beauty in them.
But I can’t see any in myself. And I can’t lie to the truth. While I’m on my journey of learning to cherish my existence, this puddle of love collecting in my chest is mine to keep or pass on. Mine to settle with, to share, to give to anyone, even if it’s not to myself.