hurtful words. avoiding glances. silent tension. biting back. lumping throat. heavy sighs. tired eyes. futile attempts. beaten will. lost desire. broken breath. trailing tears. empty insides. hollowed hopes…

conflict, intolerance, hate, anger, distrust, pretense…

i am defeated. 

 

my head screams into the pages of my diary-smeared and marked in forced, forceful lines of graphite. my head screams why? how long? 

then it whispers… please…

then it sobs… please…please…

i am in tears. 

 

one small tear topples over the tip of my nose. it lands on my palm. i look at my hands. i hold them up. they plead. 

they plead… to the heaven, to god… lend me strength, please hold me, stay near, don’t let me go…

another tear trickles down, falls on the piteous mess of paper. i pick them up. i look at the words my head decided to choose. i don’t like what i read. 

i tear small pieces from the corner. the tiny piece of paper becomes subject to the developing distaste and discomfort inside of me. my fingers squish it to a form barely recognisable as paper. for a second i feel sorry. but the next, i rip those sheets apart. i make them into angry little crumples.

my head hurts. my reflection on the glass says i have a frown. i taste blood. i have been chewing the inside of my cheek.

i am angry. 

 

my eyes are stinging. i see a blurred image of my diary, of paper, of my bookshelf, and some stationery stuff.

oh, i’m crying. i realise. 

why? weakling, why are you crying? 

irritably, i wipe my face. i feel like punching. pushing. screaming. breaking. tearing. burning. bleeding.

stationery stuff. 

i am bleeding. 

 

i see the clock. it has been an hour and a half. the crumpled paper bits have been smoothed out. they have red stained marks now. several swollen lines are pumping throbs on my arm. my reflection has been hidden behind the curtain, because it hurts. 

what am i doing? i’m fighting with myself. why? because there’s no other way to vent.

i am hurt.

 

the throb in my head and on my hand is fairly disturbing. i scratch my skin absently. i have been thinking. i am standing up now. my corner looks too desolate without me. i sit for some more time. i breathe. another. deeper. steady. again.

i clutch myself. i talk myself out of this. i say, we have so much more, we have to discover, create, love, laugh, travel, eat, enjoy, learn… we have to live. We. We are a team. You and Me. okay? 

okay. 

i smile. i hug my pillow a little closer, lay my head more heavily and close my eyes. and smile.

i am lonely. but i am smiling. 

i am alone, then. and it’s okay. it’s nice.

 

i am tired.

i am sleepy…

it’s good to hug and sleep. sleep is such a beautiful luxury, such a gentle escape… so easy to slip into, so relieving to embrace… healing, loving, accepting and quiet…

somebody bangs on the door. kya kar rahi ho itni der se andar? kholo ise. 

my heart sinks again. but my head makes me clear all the mess and fix my pretense.

nothing, i was changing clothes. khane me kya hai? mujhe bhookh lagi hai, ma. 

i am fake. 

i am broken. 

i am empty.

i am sad.

i am angry. 

i am lonely.

i am in need of peace, and love. 

i am craving. 

i am dying. 

i am crying inside. 

but?

but, i am breathing. 

i am alive. 

i am carrying on.

i am going on. 

i am on my feet.

and i am still me.

 

no hurtful cycles can destroy me. no daily tests can get better of me. i fall. i break down. i let go. but look at me, i live.

i am better. 

so what if emapathy has no meaning in this struggle? so what if there is no one but me on the other side? so what if i cannot relieve myself with words or tears anymore?

there’s never an end to the abyss of flaws and hurt and grief.

it’s about learning to merge in the shadows, when light won’t rise in your eyes. it’s about infinite patience, and faith.

it is about being the poet who writes of pain with love. who sees beauty in the dark. who weaves frayed ends and patches the torn parts with words.

even if it is a temporary remedy, it is worth the try. it is worth, because i wish to rise out of this debris of the past, and hurdles of the present.

i am worth a try.

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6 thoughts on “i am.

  1. Reading this tore me apart. I had a lump in my throat and a thousand thoughts rushed through my headspace. I really want you to know that everything will be alright. I hope whatever it is, you’ll fight through it. It makes me upset that I can do nothing about it. But you can! I love the way you write, never ever stop putting pen to paper. You’ll get through this. We all do. You have the strength and I know it’s hard but just please don’t give up.

    I know it’s not much but you’ve got a friend in me. Remember that. This is just a phase. You’re strong. You’re brave. You’ve got this, okay?

    All the best, love.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. thanks vidisha. 🙂 it means a lot to hear you say this.
      I used to think that writing such posts is something that shows up your weaknesses and you only spread nothing more than gloom with your words. But i realised that sometimes sharing the-not-so-beautiful words too, might touch a soul or two, and the reader might find solace in the fact that he/she is not alone in feeling what he/she is…
      it makes us more human, and it makes humans more ‘us’…
      that was my sole reason for sharing this particular post.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. It takes a lot of strength to write something that is fragile and personal and raw and even more strength to share it with the world. I’m glad you did so because it really does help. I hope it gave you clarity and hope. Thank you for sharing such a profound post.

        Liked by 1 person

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