What have you done to me?

What have you done to me?

You turned me into a forest fire, wild and out of control, destroying everything in its path. I’m sorry if the fumes are making you feel suffocated, but you are the one who fed these flames, with your lies and kisses, didn’t you? I’ve now become a dangerous black hole, engulfing everything near me with nothingness, but you are the one who made me this, so raw in all my madness and chaotic ways, dancing on the brink of insanity.

Don’t you dare fucking complain about how my edges feel too sharp to you now or how my pieces are not fitting all too well anymore. Does the universe apologize for cosmic annihilations? No right? Then do not look at me with regret and pity, I will tear you apart.

I’m the kind of girl your mother warned you about, the kind of girl that you hear stories about but never come across, stories of passion and ruin. You haven’t seen the monster I can be, the wrath that I locked away inside of me, disguising it as a deep lingering restlessness, like the way I avert my eyes when you look at that pretty girl on the subway with eyes full of glitter or the way I draw the curtains shut when I sleep in your bed during the day, so that even though you can touch me, I can keep myself at a safe distance, away from your longing gaze.

This restlessness will, one day, give way to a storm that no man will ever be able to subside, not even you. That day, I will spew galaxies and scream symphonies, for I will be free, free from the world’s greatest deception and life’s most beautiful lie, love.

Maybe I could write about you today.

I now measure my endless grief with all the poems I could write about you.

I could write about how your prickly beard feels against my cheeks when you kiss me in bed at 2AM like you can’t resist the taste of me, about the way my heart leapt out of my rib cage the first time you held my hand and how it exploded when your lips touched mine, oh boy, I knew I was fucked the minute you kissed me, I knew I was fucked for life, until I feel the sweet kiss of death instead.

I could write about the way your heartbeat echoes in my twisted head when I lie next to you in bed and watch you sleep, or maybe I could write about how you make me feel inside, about the constant paradox of emotions that you ignite in me, love – intense and all-consuming love, with longing and pain and happiness and fear – fear of losing you, oh yes, I could definitely write about that, about how the fear of losing you haunts my every moment with you.

I could write about how being alone with you in an elevator is the closest anyone has ever been to cosmic annihilation, and about the way your hands feel against the smooth skin of my waistline, like they belong there, like my body is unable to believe that I spent all these years without them, without your touch, unraveling me and making me yours.

Maybe I could write about your anger, the way you unleash it upon anybody who dares to hurt me, the way you can go to any lengths just to avenge me, and about how much it scares me, how much it makes me fear that one day I might fuck up and face your rage too.

I could write about the way you send a shiver down my spine each time the words “I love you” escape from your lips, not as a whisper or a scream, but as normal as anything else that you say to me, like you’re stating an undisputed fact, like you’ve never been more sure about anything else in your life except these three words, like you were dying to say them to me, to make your limitless love for me known to the one person on this planet who needs to know it the most, me.

I could also write about the way you stroke my hair – like we know each other for years and years, from a different time maybe – and the way you watch me move around the room with a restlessness that scares me, like it was taking up all your energy just to keep yourself from walking up to me and having your way with me, right there in the middle of that crowded room.

Oh, I could write about all this, and more. But I won’t.

I won’t because I love you, and all the words in the world won’t be enough to tell you how much.

To the artist inside me.

I used to hear such beautiful rumours about how dejected artists were created through the requisite and rather torturous process of love and loss, and I used to laugh at the very thought of it. I mean, how can unrequited love be the answer to why their ink flows onto paper, to why love stories are written, and to why writers are made?

But, I no longer laugh at the notion of writers being forged by pain. Now, I know.

Now, I know that it is the truth, I know that it takes a certain level of emotional damage to create works of art, it doesn’t matter whether that’s a painting or a poem.

Now, I know that it is the truth, because of you.

I’ve always felt your presence grow stronger within me over the years, like a dormant volcano awakening from a deep slumber, stirring to life a little more with each subsequent heartbreak. Every single day, you break yourself between your desire to communicate, to expose your deepest self and let your demons run wild; and your desire to hide, to abandon life as you know it and recede in the world you built for yourself, a world which does not know what it is like to have loved and lost.

Who ever says that artists create art are all liers. The reality is, that the art creates the artist.

The artist soon becomes a very reflection of the art that he creates, the words that he writes stop being mere words and start to become an expression of his very self, an echo of the words that he leaves unsaid. And now, you have become exactly like your art. You are not happy or beautiful but you make people feel something, I don’t know what exactly, maybe sadness, maybe melancholy, or maybe you just evoke memories inside them, echoes from another time.

But you’ve learnt now, become wiser than what you were when you first lost your innocence. You keep everybody at a distance, it’s safer not to feel, to not let the world touch you, to not let its beauty seep into your bones and make you seem weak. You started naming feelings after the people that gave them to you, and now those emotions, those words, even you belong less to me and more to them, to those who loved you, to those who broke you, and to those who left you. Your chosen mode of catharsis both haunts and heals me.

You are my damnation and my salvation, all at once.

Crushed and created,
Shruti Goyal

If only you knew.

I need you to know that I’ve been accused of a lot of things but my favourite accusation is that of loving you to the point of crushing madness, and I need you to know that it is also my favourite regret.

I need you to know that every drop of ink that my pen bleeds onto paper is for you and I need you to know that I still stay up at night wondering whether my words stir something long buried inside your hollow chest.

I need you to know that spiders, ghosts and goodbyes scare me the most, and also that I always thought the most gorgeous way to die was falling, whether that’s due to gravity or love.

I need you to know that I feel too much, it is all emotions and feelings and desires stirring within as my heart punches my chest from the inside, and I need you to know that I would love it if it could stop beating for a bit, just to see what the silence sounds like.

I need you to know that I’m the kind of girl who saves roses between the pages of her favourite verse of poetry, and I need you to know that the rose dies slowly but the poem never does.

I need you to know that I’m a cynic and a romantic, all at once, and I need you to know that being with me is like playing with fire, the thrill will never leave your body but I will burn baby, like a forest fire, I will destroy everything, and it will be tragic but also beautiful, I promise you that much.

I need you to know that I never gave up on love, I just let it destroy me a little too much, and I need you to know that even though the love isn’t there anymore, I never stopped destroying myself for it.

I need you to know that you don’t know me at all, you have just scraped the surface, it is going to get messier and I need you to know that it is okay that you don’t know me, because nobody does anyway.

Lovers and Leavers.

Your eyes scare me.

When we lay in bed, tangled in a mess of limbs and lies, I search for something unknown in those eyes of yours, love maybe, but you know I’d settle for lust too, don’t you? Or maybe just a passing glimpse of attachment, I don’t know.
I don’t know who the man I’m in bed with is anymore.

Every night I sleep beside you, each breath coated with desire and fear, but I feel two people bedside me. The lover and the leaver. And the worst part is I don’t know how to tell which is which.

The lover wants to protect me and heal my shattered sanity, but the leaver wants to consume me, to claim every inch of me, to make me his.
The lover is like my little prayer book, he whispers hymns up my sides, filling the cracks in my soul with soft kisses. But the leaver is like a tempest crashing against my window, he refuses to kiss me without destroying me a little each time, leaving me wanting more.

Night after night, all I can feel is skin over skin and the taste of our tears on my lips. I’m tired of loving you both, it’s breaking me apart, one sleepless night at a time.
Can a person ever run out of love to give and fear to feel?

And now, I tell myself such beautiful lies, about how the lover and the leaver inside you struggled for a long long time, before you gave up on the lover and slammed the door on your way out.

It has been days since you left me but I’ve not left my bed, for I’m scared to return to a world without you, to a world where the lovers leave you, but the love does not.

Slavery in love.

Don’t come close to me.
I will fall in love with you.

And soon enough, my body will respond only to you.

My lungs will stretch to accommodate the smell of your hair, threatening to burst out of my rib cage.
My tongue will repeat your name over and over again in my sleep, for it is the only thing that will be able escape from my larynx anymore.
The nerve sensors at the tip of my fingers will die, only to be awakened by your touch, before falling into a deep slumber when you let go.
Kisses will be the stimuli for my brain, and your voice, the shiver that crawls up my spine.
The moles on my face will rearrange in the shape of your favourite constellation.
My pupils shall dilate into a black pool of chaos, like they’re trying to fit more of you into my head, desperately attempting to paint a picture of you on my grey cells, so that they can recreate it on the back of my eyelids every night when I sleep, letting you take over my softest dreams and my worst nightmares too.
My heart will release your name into my blood stream, until I can feel you on every square inch of my skin, right up to the tip of my toes.
My mitochondria shall become a powerhouse of your memories, every cell in my body shall love you the same way that I do, perpetually on self destruct mode just to please you.

And soon, I shall forget what parts of me are mine and which are the ones that belong to you.
And maybe there will come a time, when my body will no longer be mine, just like my hollow heart.

Lessons unlearnt.

The things they teach us.

I’ve learnt about wonderful and mystical things, about galaxies far far away, about the atoms that are the pieces of humanity’s jigsaw puzzle.
I’ve read the undying words of great writers, their tales of love and tragedy.
I’ve learnt about the magic of technology, how it bridges the world, and distances us from each other.
I’ve read what heroes are made up of, and how they fall, and how their choices shaped the times that have passed long before I even came into this messy, messy world.
I’ve learnt how the mysteries of the human body were decoded over the centuries, each and every one of them, except the silent ache I feel inside me sometimes in the middle of the nights.
I’ve learnt what the earth is made up of, and why it rains when it does.
I’ve learnt to speak in several tongues, and to apologise for being myself in all of them.

But nobody ever taught us how to survive heartbreak, how to make the pain go away, and how to love again.

Nobody ever taught us that there is a difference between selfishness and self preservation, that sometimes you’ve got to be your own hero and save yourself.

Nobody ever taught us how to erase memories or how to live with them.

Nobody ever taught us how to shrug off the ghosts of the past, and how to finally stop looking over our shoulder all the time.

Nobody ever taught us that someday we’ll have to stop looking for monsters under our bed, and start worrying about the ones inside of us.

Nobody ever taught us how to make peace with our own personal demons, or how to tame them.

Nobody ever taught us why we can’t be everything to everybody.

Nobody ever taught us how to look into a person’s eyes and tell them that I love you, I love you so much that it terrifies me, and that’s okay because that means it matters to me.

Nobody ever taught us why it was so easy for people to leave, or why we so badly wanted them to stay.

Nobody ever taught us that drunk texts speak of truth, and that sometimes holding hands can be dangerous.

Nobody ever taught us how to scare our heart into beating again after it has been broken.

And most importantly, nobody ever taught me how to love myself the way I once loved him.