Friday night.

Writing to me is an act of bleeding. When in pain, I find myself tumultuously outpouring words. I guess that’s why my writings have never been all flowers and rainbows. I guess that’s also why it only appeals to the broken. I don’t know if it’s healthy that I find myself in pain this often, if this is the right outlet for my turbulent emotions. But I’ll keep doing it, as long is it works.

Tonight, a war is waging within me. And I’m defenceless against my own mind.

Memoirs of the Fallen

Remember me.
When the sky is on fire, moments before the sun sets on the ocean.
When your knees feel weak, trembling in the face of a hurricane.
When mayhem prevails but your eyes see beauty, despite and beyond.
When your mind is incapable of substantiating your own thoughts.
When logic and rationality are present, yet all fails to make sense to you.
When the thrill flushing inside your veins is too much but never enough.
When the more you run back to a memory, the quicker it fades out.
When you’re touched by a person that loves you, but all it ever does is remind you of your scars.
When you’re worn out, yet still desperately grasping for something to fight for.
When you look up and try to reason your helplessness with God
When your lungs still feel empty no matter how hard you breathe in.
When the word ‘almost’ does more damage to you than anything else.
When you call someone else by my name and feel bitterness down your throat.
When you seem to dance with your demons better than your angels.

And tell them.
Tell them I’m the woman that could handle a pen and a paper, but not a heart.
Tell them I bled words for my lovers, leaving nothing but holes in their souls.
Tell them my fire burned too strong, burning myself and all around me down.
Tell them I’m the maddest sane person you’ve ever met.
Tell them I’m defined by my restless heart and relentless mind.
Tell them I stare blankly into the eyes of fate as I fearlessly self-destruct.
Tell them I have a knife in my heart,
tell them I’m on the other end.
Tell them I’m the one who is forever in chase of her untamed imagination.
Tell them I live in days that never happened, in places I’ve never been.
Tell them I’m strong if strength meant surviving the loss of a lover that was once the best part of yourself.
Tell them I numb the pain by huffing a cigarette and dancing the night away.
Tell them I’m often a living, walking paradox inside the flesh of a pretty girl.
Tell them I’m the rebel in shackles,
the neutralized riot.

You’ll remember me when you feel hollow.
And you’ll tell them I drained us out.


It hurts to be lonely.
It hurts inside my head.

It hurts to be loveless.
It hurts not to belong.

It hurts to have a broken heart.
It hurts time is not fixing it.

It hurts not being home.
It hurts home is a person.

It hurts to be lost.
It hurts he can’t find me.

It hurts to be indifferent.
It hurts I’m not numb.

It hurts I bleed words.
It hurts my words are for no one.

It hurts to be weak.
It hurts to be faithless.

It hurts my light is gone.
It hurts seeing the stars,
knowing I was once one.





I mourn

For the numbing pain of drained minds,
weak knees,
absent sanity.
For the loss of souls, once sweet, violent and brave.
For all anchors in human form.
For feelings as pistols,
words as triggers,
actions as bullets.
For silence into screams,
screams into deaf ears,
rainbows to blind eyes.
For all destruction and disappointment in the name of love.
For the desperate search of reasons,
justifying anger,
For all effortless departures, with light feet of lighter weights.
For a reality, seen from a broken kaleidoscope,
lived in duality of reeking paradox.
For my gold into dust,
dust in the wind.

I mourn.

Risk and Return

Whether you were a business major or not, you’re probably familiar with the concept of risk and return. It’s a simple notion actually, ‘the higher the risk, the greater the return and vice versa.’ The reason why this particular subject is of matter to me is because this trade-off is something we all need to practice, much often than we do. Which brings us to the parlous subject of courage. Courage, is key. We need courage to achieve, to conquer, to acquire, to venture and sometimes, it comes to needing it to be fully alive.

Nothing is more horrendous than thinking ‘what would have happened if I did/said that?’  That’s exactly why courage is required to take the risk. To do what you’re afraid of doing. To say what you wanted to say. To delve into the precarious unknown. Little do we know, that word we hid inside, could have changed everything. That one thing we abstained from doing, could have been a game-changer. Now, is it worth that one moment of courage? YES.

Here I am, at 3am in the morning, telling you to take the risk. Dive blindly. Indulge passionately. And most importantly, liberate your mind from all constraints.

A Proposition Of Escape

High, I hold you up in your own prohibitive space..

My coruscating star, my pendant light..

Within those eyes of lustre black, I found my solace..

Take me by the hand and let us go out of sight..

Me and you, we do not belong in a world where sin is feared..

Vanish my strings, allow me to free fall into you..

Tell me you know, that here, our fusion is not revered..

Take me away and lets perpetrate something we can’t undo..

Past to present: A timeline

Friday. 06:14am, two weeks ago:

“I usually wake up before him. I gently unwrap his arms from around my waist and place a soft kiss on his cheek before I go shower. By the time I’m done, he’s standing outside, shirtless, with a cigarette flickering between his fingers. As much as I want him to quit this virulent habit, but I adore the sight of him exactly like that. That particular moment, when the graceful view of his body meets the sunrise, combined with the bitterness of the Coffee down my throat, makes me feel like if I died at that moment, I’d die at my happiest.
I head back to our room to get dressed, he follows me to lay back in bed because he can still spare a few more minutes in bed before taking a shower and getting ready for work. He loves watching me get dressed, he says that it’s his favourite part of the day. He says he loves how the shirt falls on my shoulders, the way my fingers move while I button it up from bottom to top, how the sight of my neck unravels his worries while I pull my hair up.
I hold his face and kiss him before I put my lipstick on. Frankly, I don’t why I always kiss him before putting my lipstick on. It’s as if I want to imprint his kiss on my bare lips and then safeguard it under my lipstick until I see him again. He hates it when I put make up on. It actually infuriates him sometimes. He believes it’s an act that delineates arrant violation of natural beauty. I always smile and listen thinking how much I love his mind and his smart mouth.
As soon as I’m done, he walks me to the car, still shirtless, still mine. He opens the door for me and places the warmest, most loving kiss on my forehead, “God, I love you,” he whispers with his eyes closed before his lips softly leave my forehead. I drive away thinking that I can’t wait for the day to end so I’d go back home to him.”

Today, 06:20am:

I like to think that time will handle our story. That maybe a time will come where I wake up without you haunting my every thought and move. I’ll have my regular cup of Coffee as I do every morning and stare outside from my window for a while, I will then dress up, put my make up on and leave the house tranquilly. I would go through my day doing everything half-heatedly with a smile incised on my face. I’ll pull off ‘normal’ for 24 hours. Who knows, maybe I’ll even fall asleep without any pills.