You tell me you love me.
You force me to do what you say.
If I don’t, you make me do what you say.
I tell you, I can’t live like this.
You say there’s no other life.
I try to run away, but you always catch me.
This is where you belong, you say.
I say, I decide where I belong.
No, you don’t, you say.
I shake my head, wringing my arm away
from your tight grip.
But it does gets tighter.
One by one, they come down.
Each harder than the other.
Each faster than the other.
Each leaving a mark.
You are finally done, and walk away.
Leaving me in one corner.
Defeated.
Monday, March 29, 2010
That girl.
All of us know That girl. We can’t really figure out who she is or what she does. But he likes her better. Actually, he loves her.
Her flowery voice makes them lean towards her, actually listening to what she says. A flick of her wrist and they’re all at her service. As she enters the room, they look up and suddenly you don’t exist. She’s all that matters. You were another distraction anyway. The reason he exists is here now, nothing else matters. Life is easy when she’s around.
She smiles, and so does he. She floats in and out of the room, he follows like a puppy. He laughs at all her jokes, even though they might not be funny. Their laughter crackles through the room together, and reaches that corner you’re in, refilling your drink every chance you get. You look at them and chuckle in mirth.
Someone knocks on your shoulder, you turn your head in that same floaty manner, but it doesn’t really work. A stranger offers you another drink, you take it and thank him for it, trying to flap your eyelids like her, but again it backfires and the stranger asks you if your eyes are okay. You say yes, and get back to staring into empty space.
An hour passes, you can’t really help but notice them still together. It annoys you a little less now, but it still throbs. You finally decide to leave.
But he’s walking toward you, through the crowd, wanting you to be with him, wanting to take you in his arms, wanting to tell you he loves you. Finally.
“Bartender, can I have a Screwdriver, please?” he says.
Her flowery voice makes them lean towards her, actually listening to what she says. A flick of her wrist and they’re all at her service. As she enters the room, they look up and suddenly you don’t exist. She’s all that matters. You were another distraction anyway. The reason he exists is here now, nothing else matters. Life is easy when she’s around.
She smiles, and so does he. She floats in and out of the room, he follows like a puppy. He laughs at all her jokes, even though they might not be funny. Their laughter crackles through the room together, and reaches that corner you’re in, refilling your drink every chance you get. You look at them and chuckle in mirth.
Someone knocks on your shoulder, you turn your head in that same floaty manner, but it doesn’t really work. A stranger offers you another drink, you take it and thank him for it, trying to flap your eyelids like her, but again it backfires and the stranger asks you if your eyes are okay. You say yes, and get back to staring into empty space.
An hour passes, you can’t really help but notice them still together. It annoys you a little less now, but it still throbs. You finally decide to leave.
But he’s walking toward you, through the crowd, wanting you to be with him, wanting to take you in his arms, wanting to tell you he loves you. Finally.
“Bartender, can I have a Screwdriver, please?” he says.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Dear Boy,
Dear Boy,
I wrote the same letter to you a year ago, but things have changed since then and I believe so have I. My writing has gotten darker and so have I. No, I did not get tanned.
So, I am writing this again, with the hope that when you do read this, it will help you out with understanding me, which I don’t believe is entirely possible, for I don’t know who I am myself.
Moving on to happier things (like that’s possible), I still do not like Roger Federer and Chelsea. And I will still beat you at tennis and football. I might resort to “untraditonal” tactics, maybe. And yes, I know the offside rule, maybe better than you!
I still love Rafael Nadal, and that love has grown, to the point where, I no longer I can handle his defeats. As for Michael Phelps, you do realize that the bong was mine !
For when we do meet, I won’t be the one in the mini, nor the one in the tight jeans in the centre of a huge gathering, mostly, I’ll be in my boy shorts, sitting under a tree, reading a book, on travel. Or I’ll probably be the one, wearing my old school jersey, a huge beer mug in my hand, screaming at Rooney to finally score on the field. Or the one, with acting loony and singing at the Carnival, mostly it’ll be ‘Leaving on a jet place” but you never know. Or maybe I’ll just clash into you, during one of my clumsy moments.
I am not saying it’ll be magical, because it most certainly won’t, but it’ll be something.
And like you will found out, I am not the coolest person to be around, I am the most coolest person. And yes, I want gifts.
For now that’s it, better get started on the gifts though.
Love (hopefully),
Some girl.
I wrote the same letter to you a year ago, but things have changed since then and I believe so have I. My writing has gotten darker and so have I. No, I did not get tanned.
So, I am writing this again, with the hope that when you do read this, it will help you out with understanding me, which I don’t believe is entirely possible, for I don’t know who I am myself.
Moving on to happier things (like that’s possible), I still do not like Roger Federer and Chelsea. And I will still beat you at tennis and football. I might resort to “untraditonal” tactics, maybe. And yes, I know the offside rule, maybe better than you!
I still love Rafael Nadal, and that love has grown, to the point where, I no longer I can handle his defeats. As for Michael Phelps, you do realize that the bong was mine !
For when we do meet, I won’t be the one in the mini, nor the one in the tight jeans in the centre of a huge gathering, mostly, I’ll be in my boy shorts, sitting under a tree, reading a book, on travel. Or I’ll probably be the one, wearing my old school jersey, a huge beer mug in my hand, screaming at Rooney to finally score on the field. Or the one, with acting loony and singing at the Carnival, mostly it’ll be ‘Leaving on a jet place” but you never know. Or maybe I’ll just clash into you, during one of my clumsy moments.
I am not saying it’ll be magical, because it most certainly won’t, but it’ll be something.
And like you will found out, I am not the coolest person to be around, I am the most coolest person. And yes, I want gifts.
For now that’s it, better get started on the gifts though.
Love (hopefully),
Some girl.
Finally.
Her sunken eyes speak a thousand words, even those are not enough. Her hollow cheeks are tear-ridden. Her head now perpetually bowed down, refusing to look into anyone’s eyes as walks towards the forest. Her gait, slow, careful, calculated, her footsteps heavy, making inevitable crunching sounds against the dried twigs.
She walks past them, they don’t notice as she camouflages into the trees. She is alone, atlast. Their stares won’t haunt her anymore.
She glances back and smirks to herself. They are all so oblivious.
She climbs up the slope, till the horizon greets her. I’ve been waiting, he says. He beckons her, she takes a step toward him, he smiles, she obliges, and runs.
She’s falling. She can feel the wind, she can hear it, whispering in her ears, for she is one with it now.
She hits something, something engulfs her, bubbles, movement, soft cushions. Then she no longer feels anything.
Finally.
She walks past them, they don’t notice as she camouflages into the trees. She is alone, atlast. Their stares won’t haunt her anymore.
She glances back and smirks to herself. They are all so oblivious.
She climbs up the slope, till the horizon greets her. I’ve been waiting, he says. He beckons her, she takes a step toward him, he smiles, she obliges, and runs.
She’s falling. She can feel the wind, she can hear it, whispering in her ears, for she is one with it now.
She hits something, something engulfs her, bubbles, movement, soft cushions. Then she no longer feels anything.
Finally.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Sand.
Yesterday
We walk hand in hand, glancing at the sunset, our eyes, leaving each other for only that moment. I want you to hold me forever. Together we belong.
Today
The sunset is all that matters. As I look back, our imprints on the sand bother me. For they are succeeded by a single pair of slow, soft ones.
Tomorrow
I want the waves to wash them away. All of them. For then maybe, we will cease to exist.
We walk hand in hand, glancing at the sunset, our eyes, leaving each other for only that moment. I want you to hold me forever. Together we belong.
Today
The sunset is all that matters. As I look back, our imprints on the sand bother me. For they are succeeded by a single pair of slow, soft ones.
Tomorrow
I want the waves to wash them away. All of them. For then maybe, we will cease to exist.
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