My Story

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I’ve spent so long in darkness that I can’t really see all that well anymore.

I’ve spent so long staying quiet that I don’t really know how to tell you the truth anymore.

I’ve spent so long trying to be normal that I don’t really understand who I am anymore.

They said I can’t tell you my story because you wouldn’t believe it. Because some things were meant to be talked about only behind closed doors. And let’s be honest, I didn’t even have any words to describe it in the first place.

But it’s been too many years and the hand forcing my mouth shut has gotten so old and maybe, just maybe, I’ve learned enough metaphors to wrap the truth in so you’d understand what I’m trying to tell you without me actually telling you.

Words are my courage and fear is my story. The only question now is, would you actually care to listen?

 

Instagram handle: A Writer’s Cauldron

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Love

Dear Childhood Sweetheart,

I miss you so damn hard today.

Remember how we used to be? Remember how our relationship, our friendship, could so easily be described by that shared ice cream bar when we were five? It used to be simple and perfect with you. The only expectation I had from you was that you push my swing every day and you did. Every single day without complaint.

Why can’t it be like that now? Why can’t love be as easy as you and I used to be? How did it get so complicated? Expectations, complaints, lies, manipulation… It’s all a bloody mess. And none of it feels real enough. It doesn’t feel like how you and I used to feel.

If only people could be as innocent as five year old children, it would be so much safer to fall in love. But right now, they terrify me with their masked intentions. They make me run away as fast as I can.

And sometimes I wonder how you and I would have turned out to be if we’d stuck together all these years. Would our relationship have held? Could it have stayed as pure and fun as it used to be? Probably not. Even we aren’t that lucky. Surely growing up would’ve screwed us over. Perhaps it was for the best, then, that you disappeared. At least I get to have one perfect memory of love. It’s enough to make me keep trying to find something real.

And who knows? Maybe I’ll find you again and life can be simple again. Just like five years old?

With love,

Your Silly Little Ex-Girlfriend.

 

Instagram handle: A Writer’s Cauldron

Barefoot

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You know that warm, comforting feeling you get when you step onto soft grass with your bare feet? How the blades of grass gently tingle your skin and you feel a kind of one-ness with the earth?

You know that relieved breath of sigh you let out when you step out of your tiring shoes and sweaty socks at the end of a long day and let your toes feel the floor of your house? How the cool, hard tiled floor sends shivers of happiness right up your spine and you feel the majority of your stress and exhaustion just melt away into the ground?

You know that funky, uplifting feeling you get when you let your toes wriggle in the hot sand of a sunny, gorgeous beach? How your feet sink into the sand and you just become a part of the nature and beauty of the place itself?

I really hope you know how all this feels. I hope you’re not like me, terrified of letting myself walk barefoot on the ground for no logical reason. I hope when your toes touch the floor, you’re able to appreciate the beautiful feeling for me because damn, I wish I was in your place.

Letter to My Stranger

Dear Stranger,

I guess I’ve got some things to clear up with you. And even more to apologise for.

I know I’ve been acting weirdly and I’m sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable. I did not mean to stare quite so hard at you, really. But it is partly your fault. You were the one who looked over first. And how do I explain what that did to me?

No, it’s not how you think it is. No, I’m not obsessed with you.

Fate is cruel. And so are your eyes. For they remind me of something. A someone who once mercilessly grabbed my arm and stomped on my already broken sanity. Your eyes have his laugh, Stranger. It knocks all breath out of my body.

It’s so much easier telling the world and even myself that I’m attracted to you because it’s the biggest lie I’ve ever spoken. And I could be a professional for all the lies I’ve told in my life. So that’s what I do. I tell them I’m hopelessly attracted to you so they’d think my abnormal attentiveness to your presence is normal.

Attraction is thrilling. But the shreds of my mind confuses that thrill with fear way too often. And that’s what’s happening between you and me. My own fear is pulling me towards you instead of making me run. It’s not courage. It’s self destruction.

My eyes are fixed on every move you make in a horrified paralysis. My mind is frantic with terror, seeing nothing but that imaginary monster in you and that monster alone. My body is cold with memory for it remembers more than my mind does, even the bits I subconsciously shut out to protect myself.

Dear Stranger, you make it more difficult when you stare back. And I’m so sorry for never looking away. I’m so sorry for hating you for something you never were and never will be. I’m sorry for glaring at you and I’m sorry for the unreciprocated friendly smiles.

But mostly I’m sorry for ever having run into you and dragging you into the middle of my crazy world. You deserve it even less than I did.

Sincerely,

That Girl Who Stares Too Much.

Growing Up

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I want to be five years old again. Back when colours were just colours and not reminders of people I once used to know. When happiness came in tiny, brightly-coloured packets of shiny candy and wasn’t accompanied with bitter memories that turned my tongue sour. When love was the toys I shared with my friends and not an elusive firefly I could never catch, glowing dimmer and dimmer the closer I got to it.

I want to be eight years old again. Back when games were just games, innocent fun to pass a lazy summer day and this deadly hide-and-seek life now plays with me was still in the future, far away. When my fingers were still learning to grip my pen with ease and not ripping apart notebooks filled with words from a past me. When songs were sung in high, exulted notes and not a voice near breaking for the fifth time today.

I want to be fifteen years old again. Back when breathing was something I did without a thought and didn’t have to think twice about laughing too hard. When a door was just a door with exciting adventures behind it and not a door with monsters lurking in the corners beside it. When life was a road I was yearning to walk, my eyes blissfully oblivious of the weeds that grew further down the path.

I don’t want to be twenty years old yet. I still have to call the people I think of when my eyes catch a certain shade of yellow. I still have to thank everyone who bought me candy when I was eleven. I still need to chase that firefly and seek the future. I still have to tape together the ripped notebooks, still need to try singing that song again because I’m positive, this time I can do it. I still need to catch my breath just so I can laugh some more. Still have to try the knob of every door. And when I’m done with all of that, I’m gonna put on a new pair of shoes and dance my way through all those weeds that lurk down the paths I choose.

Threat

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It’s a vicious cycle. This endless cycle of disappointment.

You say words I never expected you to, words that sting like a mother. Then I defy you in those open acts of rebellion that are the shining feature of my personality. Stubborn. Irrational. Self-destructive.

It makes you glare at me, my defiance. I can feel the heat of your anger rolling off your skin. Your compulsive need to tame me making your hands itch. I can see your fingers twitching. I can feel the red spots in your vision.

And that is when your hand rises. The end of the power struggle. Your victory over me. Brute strength always wins this battle. Especially when I am right.

You are in control. And you leave no opportunity to remind me of that.

But that is not where the story ends. Because the wounds you inflict on me are the signs of your real failure. Your failure as a man. They are the evidence of how wrong you are.

One day, I shall parade them. One day, when you’ve ruined me enough for nakedness to not bother me anymore, I will parade them. One day, you’ll feel my shame. One day, you’ll see disappointment and hate in their eyes too, like I saw in yours.

My bruises might be hidden for now, protecting you awhile, but one day, the bloody gashes inside my head will give me the ink to write out your doom.

 

 

Image Credit: https://agnes-cecile.deviantart.com/art/are-scars-on-body-217843735

A Hard Choice

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Heartbeat

In overdrive,

Breathing

Laboured

And terrified,

Eyes

Closed shut

Tight,

I hover

Between life

And death,

Wondering

Whether

To give in

And jump

Over the

Precipice.

~Diksha

Darling, I Wish…

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Darling, I wish

I could go back in time –

Wipe your tears away,

Hold your hand in mine.

Darling, I wish

I could watch you while you sleep

When you’re at your most vulnerable –

See everything you’ve buried deep.

Darling, I wish

I could keep you with me forever –

Spend my entire life with you,

Be parted from you, never.

Darling, I wish

I could love you a little less

Or maybe gather enough courage

To look you in the eye and finally confess.

~Diksha

The Devil’s Plaything

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Breathless, I strain

Against the pull of the puppet string –

Trapped, encaged

In the confines of the circus ring.

Like a demonic sadist,

You torture me like a mere plaything.

From one crazy height

To another of insanity you swing.

Flirting with madness,

You revel in your lunatic fling;

Forcing me on the tightrope,

You laugh at how I struggle to cling.

You pull at me harder

Just to relish in how my screams sing,

For I am your puppet

And you, insanity’s best circus king.

~Diksha

 

Image source: https://in.pinterest.com/pin/485262928576155289/