erotica

your earlobes
are like aloo:
tasteless
but comforting.

i feel like doing something reckless.

like have sex with a stranger
or jump of a cliff.
or tell you that i love you
and then run away.

i feel like doing something destructive.

like have sex with a stranger
or jump of a cliff.
or tell you that i love you
and then break your heart.

verb: to do

you
make me.

you make me
want.

you make me want
to do

you.

it's too late now,
isn't it,
to think about it?

it's too late now,
pandora's box is open,
and every misery in the world
has broken loose.

**

ain't it funny, how time slips away..

suspiciously i
creeped into my head
to see what it was hiding
from me.

there i found
a box full of dreams
hid away from my
heart-
my cruel, cruel heart,

afraid that i may
discard it the way
i threw away
everything else.

**

i have longed to write. longed, to give in to this desire to burn every flaming thought into reality, to seek clarity, to learn, perhaps unlearn. i write not a song, but a lament. i wish to forget what i must remember, to do what i must not do, to destroy what i have kept for all this while. i am looking up while stepping down, looking up, while falling. i don't want to fall. i want to reel myself in, but at the same time, lurch upwards and fly. i am reeling myself in, yes, and i am lurching upwards, true, but i do this with no soul in it. i do this like an empty shell riding a wave.

**

everytime i have wished to write about my own sadness, i have managed to twist it into a story, to attribute it to a stranger that never existed except for in my own head, in my own heart, in the imagination that has stolen from me, all i ever had. i have created them, to hide me, i have lied, to disguise the truth. i don't wish to write a story today. may be tomorrow, i will erase this, or even hide these words behind some man with an obscure name that has come out my ocean of a head. this is the story of my life, and i don't think it is worth writing.

**

the neem leaves are turning yellow. they know that they must drop, that it will get cold. they imitate sunlight, take up a beautiful golden, shine for the last time underneath the pollution and fall.
this is autumn. the air is nipping. clawing, even, and i refuse to give in. not yet. for it is still warm. so am i. but for how long?

**

i am turning inward. turning to water to scream into, to let my frustration out on. i sing to let go, and i sing with my soul. these are the moments that i have for myself, and these are the moments i love. i read, but it has been a long time since i have read anything that i truly felt like a part of. like the audience that is enraptured, trapped in a world that is not my own, but feels like reality. i yearn for that escape, and i don't know where else to find it.

**

the criticism makes it worse. i pretend to enjoy those long talks with people who tell me exactly what it is about me they hate, and all those things that are wrong about me. i laugh it off, and pretend i know what i am hearing already, affirming their opinions. all i want is to hear it, so that i may assure myself that what i am thinking is right, that everything about me is wrong, that everything about me is wrong, that everything about me can be worded into a few people's ideas and beliefs, and i don't want to defend myself, i want to tell myself that i am the deluded one, and these talks only confirm my beliefs.

**

from what i read today, the self is easy to rebuild, and from what i remember of the rest of it, this rebuilding is like a narcotic (courtesy shalimar the clown that i decided i would not read but fell into). but what i read today gives me hope. that it is probably not difficult for me to undo and redo myself, that i can be a different person, perhaps pursued by the ghosts of some of my actions but untouched by their consequences.

hah. even saying it like this sounds silly.

**

He said no.
In not so many words.

He said no, in no words at all.

i thought i'd stop
and say hello.

i turned around
and looked for

you,
your deep, easy laughter

impressions of your feet
that i know so well,

your lanky silhouette
against the sun,

but you were gone.