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  • thegreymetaphor 8w

    I was straw-stirring
    the fresh lime soda that
    sat infront of me
    when somebody popped
    the age old generic question
    "whom do you love the most in the world?"
    It was more conversational
    and less of an inquiry
    anticipating a pondered over response
    which is probably why,
    the time it took to come up with one
    was less than heartbeat.
    "My brother", I said,
    resolute, undoubtable,
    like it was the most blatant truth I knew.
    They smiled.
    "You really can't live without him, can you?
    I smiled. And I just smiled.

    I have loved a lot of people.
    I have loved my brother the most among them.
    And I have done that for so long
    that I don't know how not to.
    And maybe,
    it's true that I cannot live
    in a world that doesn't have him.
    But is he the reason I'm alive today?
    The 'no' that bubbles in my belly
    is no less resolute than the answer before was.
    I know it because
    I've questioned it more often than I'd like to.
    In the dead of the night,
    under the shower, over the sink,
    staring at the wall pressing a fist to my chest,
    while trying to breathe, you name it.
    And the answer is probably
    the only thing that has
    remained a constant over the years.

    I love people because I want to.
    I love my brother the most
    because I choose to.
    But I'm alive today
    because someone chose me.
    I'm alive because my father refused to give up on me.
    Not even when I did. Especially when I did.

    And I hope, for the life of me, I hope
    that it's atleast okay, even if a little selfish
    if the one you will die for
    and the one you will die without
    aren't one and the same.


    ©Srishti




    _____________________________________________________________




    However badly articulated, this is the most honest, most personal thing I've ever written. And I hate myself so much for ever wording this line of thought. And even more for posting it.
    But I also hope I never delete this, this ill-written thing.

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    I love you.

    I'm sorry.

  • thegreymetaphor 9w

    Just #anonymousdarling again, I guess.




    Note : the phrase "tilted by seven degrees" has been picked up from a story I read.

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    seven degrees

    If I were to assign a word to it, I probably won't go far but maybe a phrase of 'misplaced by seven degrees' would do.

    My world had always been tilted by seven degrees. It wasn't so much a plight as it was a mere fact, existing as a whisper somewhere along the machinations of life. Albeit quietly but there nonetheless. I cannot say when it started. Maybe it was when grandma passed, taking away with her my sole caretaker of ten years or maybe it happened in the years that followed with a sudden requirement to acknowledge a home that I had never viewed as a home or maybe it occurred when I failed my entrance test for the first time, sowing the first seed of a fear deep within my belly. Fear of being a disappointment, the roots of which are yet to dislodge from my veins.

    But for most of the time, cradled by a family that was as nurturing as they come, with people who never needed a verbal check to bring home exuberant cakes on gloomy days, I had neither the will nor the time to care. Because seven degrees never seemed much. Atleast not enough to realise something was amiss. Or maybe, it really was too small. A fragile whisper in the roaring rush of everyday. Trudging up an askew path never mattered.

    And then you happened. Forcing me to confront the slope beneath my feet and see just how much seven degrees can change the view.

    Or more importantly, showing me a world, similar and yet so different from mine, shaky as it was but not unbalanced.

    Perhaps that's what it had felt like when we shared that cheap apple slush last summer and you kissed me under the pretense of transferring the foul taste of the sour drink.

    Perhaps that's what the matter was with my asymmetrical christmas decorations that you had spent half an hour laughing at and then the next two, readjusting.

    Hovering in the refrigerator light as I watch you towel dry the dishes by the kitchen sink, maybe that's what it feels like. Not a life-changing event or a world stilling affair.

    But if I say it feels like finding a level ground, perhaps I wouldn't be exaggerating.



    ©Srishti

  • thegreymetaphor 11w

    I do not make conversations
    if I do not want to.
    In all sincerity, I don't even know how to.
    For all the good temperament
    I seem to have people convinced of,
    I can't be bothered
    to soften the edges of small talks,
    however stilted.
    I'm not afraid of awkward pauses
    or even trailing ends.
    I'm not afraid of not caring enough.
    So when I call you
    way past the midnight
    3 years after you've cajoled me into believing that
    burning a perfect canvas is better
    than painting it ugly--
    it's not because I want to talk.
    From 6000 kilometres and two timezones away,
    when you complain
    about the damp, musty
    kitchen cabinets of the apartment
    you moved into just for the sake of it's
    floor-to-ceiling windows
    that overlook the sunsets and city lights
    and I pillow talk about
    the aunty across from me who keeps drying
    red chillies under cloudy skies--
    it's not because I have something to say.
    I just don't want to hang up.







    ___________________________________________________________


    #anonymousdarling

    Let the lack of credit erase the fact that I ever wrote this.

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    Anonymous Darling

  • thegreymetaphor 19w

    I wanted the left corner of the
    living room couch,
    sunken under the weight of
    post-date makeouts
    to become so much of a commonplace
    as to be unremarkable.

    I wanted the curve of your fingers
    on the back of my neck
    to be so lackluster
    that they'd stop feeling novel.
    I wanted us to be so thoroughly ordinary
    that none of it
    would ever feel fragile or... fleeting.

    You don't get to blame me.
    Not when you opened the gates
    of the fool's paradise
    already tethered to leaving.
    Not when the phantom
    of your touch on my skin
    still has the audacity to unnerve me.

    I don't get to blame you.
    Not when loving you had always felt like a chase
    in which you had a headstart-
    the one I was meant to lose,
    and I refused to anchor myself anyway
    like a knife so pliant against a whetstone.



    ©Srishti

    _______________________________________________________


    ��

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    Fool's Gold

    I wanted us to be so thoroughly ordinary
    as to be unremarkable.


    ©thegreymetaphor

  • thegreymetaphor 24w

    "I absolutely want nothing but to be held right now", she manages to whisper in between sniffles as the grip of her fingers entwined on mine tightens.

    I look at her helplessly, my fists clench. How much more? I wonder, grudging. How close do I need to hold you for you to stop wanting to be held? How tight should my clasp on you be for you to not uproot my nails when you turn your back on me? All over again. I want to say it out loud and preface it with a bitter laugh. I don't, ofcourse. Because she's breaking down. And I'm tagging along, whether I like it or not.

    "I'm such a mess", she finally forces a sigh, throwing her hands in the air in exasperation, almost mad at herself.

    "You're such a ... Rudolph", I retort confused, only half joking because her sniffling nose beneath those glossy eyes is a shade of crimson due to all the sobbing over a jerk who wouldn rather love someone else. I close my eyes before they can roll.

    "Stop making me laugh."

    "Stop crying then!" I almost shout. Staring blankly at her, my face expressionless, hopefully not at all transparent to the frustration coursing through me.

    She gives me one of her defiant looks. The one that says I'm-not-mad-but-I'm-gonna-be-a-brat. Eyes indignant, lips puckered up into a little pout. Face flushed and nose red. So much for having the prettiest face on the planet. Pathetic!

    "Keep looking at me like that and I'll kiss you till you drop", I say with a straight face, not at all joking.

    But she snorts. Ofcourse.

    "You mean like my very platonic roommate?" She laughs, making finger quotes around "platonic", evidently recalling what the bastard had said.

    "Don't you quote that jerk to me, it's repulsive!" I clench my fist again.

    "Hey! Don't be like that now. It's not his fault and you know it. We don't get to choose whom we fall for", says the girl who has just spent two hours breaking down, in defence of her heartbreaker.

    "Besides", she continues, "I love the way he loves him. Keenan makes him happy in a way I never can. I'd never have known of the existence of that doe-eyed smile if it wasn't for him.", says this girl like it's the only truth she's ever known. Like it's not at all a punch in the gut to say it out loud. This girl who says stuff such as this with utmost sincerity and then wonders at 2:00 ams if there's anything even remotely lovable about her.

    "I love the way he loves him."

    I reiterate her words to myself, over and over again, because that's the only set of words that makes sense tonight.

    They hang in the air around us as I hold her fragile frame a little closer than I intend to.


    ©Srishti

    ____________________________________________________________________




    If you want to believe this isn't fiction, be my guest.



    Also, this is grossly hopeless. Eww.

    But then, what is hopeless if not my definition of love?

    Okay again, eww.

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    Single plank bridge

    I've never been afraid of love.
    But I'm terrified of who I become when I hold someone nearer than necessary.


    ©thegreymetaphor

  • thegreymetaphor 35w

    I did not break through.
    I could not break free.
    I surrendered.
    To make the chains stop hurting.

    I often falter
    infront of the mirror
    because it reflects my reality.
    And only in it's dreaded face
    do I acknowledge
    my incessant addiction
    to fantasies.
    I am but an escapist, I murmur,
    staring into the mirror.
    The mirror smirks.
    People have it worse, it says.
    Heavens know the weight
    on my shoulders
    is enough to make my back droop
    but the mirror tells me,
    even with blunders
    as indelible as a birthmark,
    I am just an insignificant speck
    fading away to infinity,
    and that ought to offer me
    a moment of a few
    unburdened breaths.
    The mirror asks me
    to stop romanticising the pain
    in hopes of healing
    because true healing begins
    when you stop craving it.
    When you come to terms
    with the fact that
    some scars are going to stay,
    and not as embellishments.
    Scars are all they'll ever be.
    There will be no beauty to them.
    Just ugliness. And terror.
    But less pain and maybe one day,
    enough strength
    to narrate their stories.
    The mirror is not wrong.
    Not at all.
    Then why do I feel like a hostage
    of it's arguments?

    Why do I take shelter within poems
    even when they're to no avail?
    For I am now, at the end of this one
    and the chains still won't stop grappling.

    ©Srishti

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    Hostage

    Maybe, true healing begins
    when you stop craving it.
    When you come to terms
    with the fact that
    some scars are going to stay,
    and not as embellishments.
    Scars are all they'll ever be.
    There will be no beauty to them.
    Just ugliness. And terror.
    But less pain and maybe one day,
    enough strength
    to narrate their stories.


    ©thegreymetaphor

  • thegreymetaphor 45w

    Perhaps, the only thought
    that elicits a smirk
    as I stare at the empty walls
    is the fact that
    even after everything
    you couldn't break my heart.
    I had already been
    walking the tightropes,
    more or less.
    Was ready to let go
    of the slippery parapet
    when you came along and
    caught onto my hand.
    Your pleading eyes
    were somehow
    more appealing than the dive
    behind me that was
    meant to be my escape.
    In that moment,
    as I was dangling by the only thread
    of your hand holding mine,
    there was a relief
    beginning to surge through me.
    There was a part of me
    so high on your touch
    that it wanted to keep breathing.
    Was I doubtful
    of my will to end it all?
    I do not know.
    But regardless of my denial,
    the choice between
    living for you and dying for myself
    had been made.
    And the calm that it came with
    was so utterly consuming
    that I didn't realise
    when you let go.
    It took me a while to register that
    the string had broken
    leaving me at the mercy of freefall
    and before I could question
    the sudden emptiness
    in my hands, it was benumbed.
    The impact of the fall
    braced me before I could fall apart.
    I hit the ground
    before you could break my heart.



    ©Srishti


    ______________________________________________________


    The line on the display is from the song Arcade by Duncan Laurence.



    If you can't already tell,
    this is toxic romanticism at it's best. ��

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    Freefall

    Loving you was a losing game.

  • thegreymetaphor 48w

    He never smiled.

    But, he laughed a lot.

    A laughter so contagious that if it were a drop of water, it could make a barren heart bloom into a bouquet of flowers. His eccentricity stood out. Not in a dark twisted way but rather, mysteriously. I could never have fathomed him to be a church goer for I can't remember a time when he wasn't engulfed by smoke rising from the cigarette dangling between his fingers or a time when there was no whiskey on his breath.

    I could have easily concluded he belonged to the likes of me who were forced into this weekly tradition had I not seen him alone. Always.

    He never stood in mercy or bowed in prayer. Just sat there, every Sunday morning, on the last bench during the service and stared ahead as if he was trying to dare Jesus into a trial by combat.

    The gossipers whispered about him. About his dark and seemingly damned soul. "That arrogant fella never opens that mouth unless he has to be downright ghastly. Why even insult the lord by coming here at all? Brings down the atmosphere of the entire room with that foul expression." But that's what they were. Gossips.

    For down at the Fusion bar, round the corner at the end of the church street, he was the life of the party. Always talking. Always merry. Always making people laugh. Always laughing.

    While it has been mentioned time and again that he never smiled, there was once a time when he surprised me. On a windy autumn night when I asked him about love.

    On that cramped porch, surrounded by empty bottles and rising smoke, I saw his blurry face look up at the dark sky, his lips curl up into a tiny, almost oblivious smile, just for a moment before blending into a smirk. A softness had flickered in his eyes before it was replaced by the intense hollowness I was more familiar with.

    And before another word could escape me, he took a long drag and turned all possible answers to my unuttered question, into smoke. And then, he never smiled again.

    They say he loved a nun who despised cigarettes. Hated them more than she hated his tattoos. More than alcohol. More than his impertinence. But, she loved him more than she hated cigarettes. They say, she loved him more than she loved God. And perhaps, God couldn't stomach that.

    But like I said, that's what they were. Gossips.



    ©Srishti

    ______________________________________________________





    I might as well just go back to sleep.

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    Tittle-tattle

    I will not ask you where you came from.
    I will not ask and neither should you.

    -Hozier

  • thegreymetaphor 62w

    #rant
    #averypettyrant
    #animpracticalrant





    All the refrences are from the book 'To kill a mockingbird' by Harper Lee.

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    Dear Atticus Finch,

    Ever since I've read you telling Scout that "most people are nice people when you finally see them", I've found myself living by it. Even when things got unbearably tough, I didn't let my belief stagger. Not by a lot, anyway.

    As someone who grew up with a very simplistic view of the world and precisely, of people, I get very unpleasantly surprised everytime I discover a kind of person I never thought could exist.
    In those times, your words prevent my faith from falling off the edge.

    And I believe I've tried fairly enough too. I've tried walking in other people's skin when I found myself despising them. I didn't let my friends turn into foes when we disagreed. I've tried staying true to my conscience despite failing often. And I've tried keeping my head high and my fists down.

    But somehow, it isn't enough, Atticus.

    Maybe, the problem is in the lens I view the world from. Perhaps, it's my eyes that are ugly for choosing the to see the worst and victimizing myself. How can I not see beauty in the world despite everyone constantly asking me to?

    But what do I possibly have to do to walk in the shoes of people who think being inhuman is just a human flaw?

    People play with lives, trample on hearts, ruin one's trust and seldom stop to care about it's price. They destroy out of sheer entitlement. They kill in the name of all sorts of things. Power. Patriotism. Righteousness. Even God. And the worst of all, they justify it looking straight into your eyes.
    Their eyes don't flinch, Atticus.

    And they kill the mockingbirds without a second thought.

    I envy you, you know? For staying true to your beliefs even after witnessing the injustice that happened with Tom and Arthur. Even after seeing the extent to which human ugliness can stoop.

    This world is not very different from the one you lived in. It's not black and white and maybe, like Scout says, there are only one kind of folks. Folks. And they can't be bundled into categories of less right and more wrong.

    But, with the way the light keeps burning out, what if it leaves completely before the world can even stop to breathe?

    ©Srishti

  • thegreymetaphor 64w

    #random

    Taylor Swift made this happen.

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    Circles

    They tell me
    my poems are less poems and more stories.
    An idea that has a beginning
    an end
    and everything in between.
    Unlike poems,
    they don't carve my skin to shed light on the darkness inside.
    They don't fall apart as the poet does.
    But the completeness of a story is often scarier,
    did you know?
    It's beginning ascertains an end.
    And how many times
    have you held back a hello
    because you didn't want to risk another goodbye?


    ©thegreymetaphor