A Disease Called Fascination

Illustration by www.bitesizedsanity.com

My spoon scrapes up shards of blue stained glass, the exact shade of my melancholy, only slightly watered down. Your knuckles make that sound again, echo around my ribcage and reverberate in my head; I love you. You seem to be the kind of man drawn towards objects of fascination, after all, you have affixed your eyes on me. You swallow a teaspoon of this fascination every day, feeding your delusions till they branch out into acts of desperation, till you think you need me to even continue living.

Alright, I think to myself. I let you climb inside my mouth, slide down my throat and cling to my lungs. My ribcage made you feel safe, so close to my beating heart. My teeth crunch glass, drowning out the sound of your desperate appeals to be heard. They don’t go down easy, but that’s what you get for letting the paranoias of your mind feed you. Was that a scream I heard? Sounds of scampering, feet shuffling urgently, as if to flee. You grumble about the sharp pieces of glass, your feet are cut and bloody. I cannot stop, I am ravenous. I spoon more into my mouth, even beads of a confusing colour, all mixed in. Is this what anxiety looks like? When the streams of thoughts have lost direction and come to seek each other, like moths drawn to light? Thoughts of different colours, from the bluest of blues to the murkiest browns, spun around and around in a complicated jumble.

My throat is dry, I wash it all down with water, one easy swallow. Help, you scream; I am drowning, you say. You beat against my insides and plea for your freedom. But darling, I never imprisoned you. You were always a prisoner of your own fairy-tale. When you said you loved me, you meant when I was at my best. You loved me when I put up a string of Christmas lights around my rib-cage, when they glowed warmth, enveloping you in a womb-like safety. Two fingers down my throat, out you come, awash in relief. You run away, almost expecting me to hold you back, perhaps a little let down when I don’t. Maybe you know better now, you watch me from afar. You don’t wish to drown, merely to stay afloat in your fascination of me. I wish you were wiser, I wish you rather knew how to swim.


Almond Blossom

Illustration- http://www.bitesizedsanity.com

The chatter around us seemed to have multiplied, the music ebbing into a gentle stream. I looked out of our bubble and felt only a hum, reverberating around us but not quite touching us. I was secure, I was happy.

My mind tugged onto a single stream of memory, a thread I had looped around it to help me remember. It’s been a while and I have stopped being surprised by how easily our conversation flows, how I want to tell you everything and not hold anything back. From the most inconsequential event to things of great urgency, they flow like a tide between us, back and forth.

My words spill their letters and, in that moment, you take my hand and intertwine our fingers; the alcohol gently making its way to our bloodstreams. You sit there wearing a lopsided smile, absorbing my words and looking so nonchalant. Like as if this was the most ordinary thing in the world, like as if my heart hadn’t slipped through my ribcage and into the pit of my stomach, like as if affection was a commodity to be shared so easily.

In your defence, you have never viewed affection as a commodity to be sold and bought. I come from a world where love has a price and hearts are broken with the speed of lightning. A world where affection is hoarded, a wasteland of hearts. I have only ever been robbed of my soul, for I am well versed in the art of giving.

If I love you, I will let you have my all. You can move into my heart, strip my body of all its shame and haunt my soul. I have been told to be careful, hearts break easily. But, what else is the purpose of our hearts? The heart is for breaking, for feeling, for loving recklessly. How can the heart grow softer if we never let it break, never allow it to grieve and feel?

But, I am getting side-tracked. You laughed, and now I understand why making someone laugh is such a treasure. I could do this all day, hold your hand and walk you through my world of absurdities. This is a world of my own, my vulnerabilities are alive and breathing. You should know I do not bring people here, not so often anyway.

You are gazing at me like I am the most important thing in the room, I have never seen your eyes drift away from me. We are held together by electricity, buzzing and alive in our hands. We get ready to leave, my hand held firmly in yours. Tugging me along the next adventure at 10’o clock in the night.

It’s a hot night, spring is coming alive in the form of almond blossom trees, their pink petals strewn all over the streets. You kiss me then, and it’s as if I have never been kissed before. It’s a heart thumping, mind reeling, fingers tugging onto skin kind of urgency. Your kisses are always urgent, like as if you are boarding a train to an unnamed city at the crack of dawn, tasting me for the last time.

Through the thumping of my heart, emerges a single delicate thread of whisper- I hope the night sucks us in right this moment, the geometry of our lips intact and our bodies communicating in a language private to them alone.

A Traveller’s Guide to Love

On the day we slept nestled in an array of sweaty limbs and hearts beating too fast, you kissed my lips and murmured, “I know you”. I was busy flirting with my fluttering heart to answer you. Your words, like kites lost and found, they came back to me today.

I have had lovers before you. Lovers who traversed my body’s busy lanes and landmarks through the lens of a camera. Lovers who moved around in a tourist bus and stepped out to mingle amongst each other. Lovers who went to the railway stations and took pictures of the trains but never got into one of them. I realised I was chasing tourists. They wanted my body and my laughter lines. They never asked for my radioactive bones. They never stopped to run their fingers through my corrugated flesh. They wanted the history I told the world, never the stories I hid in my lungs.

It was only you who took long slovenly walks through my body’s narrow gullies. You stood in the midst of the crowded streets of my mind while drawing on your cigarette. You have found my hidden bylanes and stopped to photograph the abysmal graffiti on the walls. You have been rendered mad, absolutely barking insane with the way you kept bumping into my questions and doubtful heart.

My lovers, they came to sit by the sea; They came to click over-exposed pictures at the wrong time of the day. You, you waited for the sky to take its time. You waited till I whispered my secrets. You got on trains and pushed through crowds like you already belong. You recounted my history like you have always been around. Your tongue mapped my body’s geography as your fingers conquered uninhabited islands of sensations.

You were always the traveller. I swallowed the tsunami threatening my eyes as you raced through the airport. You built me a country and coronated me the ruler. You flowed out of my life like time, slowly and then all at once. I didn’t hold you back; I didn’t stop your plane. I knew that like time, I had to let you go too.

I Have Tasted Poison

Do you know what an abusive relationship does to your soul?

It makes your soul shrink into a corner and cower. Your abuser punctures your self-worth everyday with a pin. Little holes, little holes emptying you of your dignity. And the thing is, when they are done with you and you launch a search party for your soul, you won’t find it so easily. You will knock on numerous doors and peep through countless windows and you won’t find it. The thing is, even if you do happen to chance upon the right house, it will refuse to stand up to you. It has been shrunken and refused light. Your soul would have diseased legs that don’t function anymore. You can assure it of its freedom and it will create imaginary chains.


That’s the thing about abusive relationships, they break your soul. They devoid you of what makes you human, your dignity. Your abuser strips you off your dignity, packs it in a suitcase, takes it to the middle of the fucking Pacific ocean and dumps it in. He then commences to parade your unclothed soul in front of his friends who are all descendants of malice. You sway your ego till one of them pinches it; You jiggle your heart till someone crushes it. They lay you down on the cold marble and lick their sordid temper off of your wet face. Your tears are their salvation. They have just attained a form of sadistic nirvana.