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  • wine_mirrors 3w

    Dont romanticize my hurt, you say
    My pain does not exist for your aesthetics.
    Okay, then. I promise
    I promise to be blunt this time.

    You look ugly when you sleep.

    I do think that Blue Lays is better than the green one, i just wish you thought that its
    okay to have different tastes.

    I wish seeing your tears made me cry
    I really do, but i didnt. And it is what it is.

    I never really liked your spotify playlist
    Never even listened to more than two songs,
    In fact. (I gave up when i saw shawn mendes in there)

    At times I wish I could hate you.

    I once did cry because of the way you smiled when i woke you up and wished you happy birthday. Your eyes were brighter than all the birthday candles that i could've bought, so bright that I never would have blown the fire away from them even if it meant missing a wish.

    I'm sorry that i beautify everything that i see. I'm sorry for expecting us to turn into butterflies even when we were just a can of dying worms. I wish i could love you for the ugliness that you have, and the imperfections that we could have shared.

    I don't regret us breaking up.

    I just thought maybe we could've fixed it together

    Read More

    Uhh idk lol (insert poetic title)


  • wine_mirrors 11w

    I bought some plastic flowers
    They cost about sixty rupees
    I gave him a hundred and
    Walked away, not because they
    Meant that much to me, but because
    Neither he nor I had any change left.
    So lovingly wrought in synthetic fibre
    They gripped my hands, so thornless
    And bold; they didnt offer any
    Justifying metaphors to the observer.

    Maybe your death was a testament that
    This worship of life that poets perform
    Might be a form of idolatory.
    We desperately seek a higher presence
    In a construct made of painted stone
    That we ourselves had made.

    So that's why i place these plastic flowers
    Beside your grave, because I can't fight
    Darkness with a fickle fire; rather accept it
    With the silence of acknowledgement.
    So that maybe when life (and death) disappears,
    These flowers might remain; lifeless yet immortal.
    So that they serve as matrimonial blessings
    when this earth unclothes flesh from your ribs,
    And makes love to your bones.

    So that your memories reside in these flowers,
    If my words and my heart fail.

    Read More

    Plastic flowers/necrophilia

    A plastic flower is an eternal temple
    Built in devotion to a dying god

  • wine_mirrors 19w

    I'm staring at the ground, but
    The texture of the floor
    Doesn't make sense to me.
    Your hand flutters and falls.
    A butterfly's broken wing.
    You kiss colours onto my fingers
    And I cannot wash them away.
    My hands move. I watch them.
    I'm alive. That's alarming
    I wish i could take my thoughts
    Peel the words away from them
    And place it close to your skin
    (Don't touch them though).
    If it's winter, maybe I'll exhale promises
    And watch them condense and fall
    Next to your feet. And when i see
    Your feet touching the ground, maybe
    Its texture would make sense to me
    And I would stop staring at it one day

  • wine_mirrors 22w

    May god forsake the kind of men
    Who need people to need them

    Read More

    Go on.
    Hide your skeletons
    In my closet;
    Call it love.
    Their bones are still pink
    From ripped flesh
    And overcooked sunsets.
    Make me your diary,
    Scribble your secrets
    And tear all my pages out
    Until i become a spine that has
    Nothing to hold anymore
    Folded veins of leather
    Run down my middle

  • wine_mirrors 30w

    #haynaku this is what peak performance looks like ��

    Also qualifies as a #concrete poem because it looks like a sombrero (very relevant i know)

    Read More

    Is a
    Haynaku, i guess

  • wine_mirrors 38w

    Dear hypothetical-girl-next-door-who-serves-as-a-convenient-plot-device-for-this-write-up-to-progress,

    I know that you do not exist in this world as of right now. However the Many Worlds theory of quantum physics argues that everything that can happen, will happen; across infinite alternate realities. So think of this as a love letter across parallel universes, from a universe where you don't exist to a universe where you do. And maybe, just maybe there's a world where I only exist in your mind, just as you do to me right now.
    As you can see, lately I've been using science as a foil to fight my inner conflicts and shakespearean dilemmas. Hamlet would've found schrödinger's thought experiment very intriguing, to say the least. The idea of being both alive and dead would've really appealed to him. Perhaps to be and not to be is the answer.
    ...I don't know what I'm trying to prove here.
    I don't even know what I'm trying to say. What I can, however, attempt is to embody you as a stand-in for every writer who has left this platform. It's equally baffling as all the schrödinger's hypotheses. You are here, aren't. Like an empty set, a space enclosed by set brackets. A sense of superposition seeps in your deactivatedness, of both being and unbeing.
    I get it, this tiny universe of ours has changed. For better or for worse, that is subjective. What started off as a farm where we plucked ripe words that fell off from the old yet growing branches of feelings, is slightly becoming more..commercialised, more mass-produced, pumping out processed wordy poems without any heart to dictate them. And this is precisely why I ask you to return.
    Once, the nib of my favourite pen had broken. I had the nib alone replaced, of course, but the question still lingered- is this still the pen that I'd known and loved? Will its barren iridium tip embrace the world of paper and dreams, will it become fertile with ink again?
    I didn't know the answer then, but I did come to understand much later that the pen is merely a consequence, a cultural medium that is dependent on the hands of its holder. I think it's fair to say that the same applies to this world of ours too. And I think I'm coming to understand why this place now has a "quill" in its name and a pen nib as its symbol. Just because there's a difference in the way it used to be, doesn't mean that it's still not our world anymore. I might even go so far as to say that our attitude towards this world has changed much more than the place actually did.
    Places don't change, people and feelings do.
    So please come home.

    Of course in the realm of overarching possibilities, cannot-ness cannot exist. I'm quite confident that the possibility of you returning, can happen. I can only hope that it will.

    Read More

    "Had we, but world enough and time"

  • wine_mirrors 39w


    Don't just leave. Here,
    Take these memories
    With you when you go.
    Oh, and I tried to gather
    All the silences I could find, that
    Were lying across our rooms-
    My. My rooms, oh.
    And look, some of them had
    The hidden yet harsh violet
    Of deliberately forgotten bruises.
    Some of them had a gentle blush
    Surrounded by teethmarks
    I know that they would come back,
    That the vapours of noise would
    Condense one day and heavily
    Rain silences, I just can't
    Comprehend why you
    Want to leave,
    Don't you enjoy hurting me anymore?
    Is my pain not enough for you anymore
    I'll hurt more for you, I promise
    I'd rather be in pain with you than
    Not knowing how I'll be without you
    Please dont leave me
    Dont leave me
    Don't just leave,
    Take these memories
    With you when you go.

  • wine_mirrors 39w

    Plant a rose
    On my dead dreams
    And watch its petals
    Unfurl into wings

  • wine_mirrors 41w

    The wind simmered on my forehead
    Cold and warm, like menthol balm
    The road ran underneath us,
    Until it became a silver blur;
    Miles of sorrow and exhilaration
    Hide inside the cracks of our feet
    We basked under a glistening bridge
    A sunrise made out of cement and streetlights
    I stretch my hands, to tie the wind
    Between my fingertips and fly

  • wine_mirrors 42w

    Somewhere, a blackboard yearns
    To drink dust from poems and diagrams
    Made manifest, it misses the
    Squeaky whispers of chalk and the
    Promising caress of an eraser.

    Somewhere, a desk-leg hides the taste
    Of a bubblegum shared between a kiss;
    The taste of hot breath melting with
    Subtly sour notes of strawberry.

    Somewhere, an old tree has forgotten
    The young lovers who tattooed their names
    Onto its tender bark with compasses

    Somewhere, restrooms lie
    Devoid of laughter and scandals;
    The walls scrubbed clean off
    The innocently vulgar graffiti and those
    Forbidden crushes we had on teachers.

    Somewhere; outside my room
    Yet inside my mind,
    A school lies in wait.