Sadnesses I scribbled last fall.

I am writing again,but it’s disconnected jargon and it makes no sense. I’m using I so often it’s making me sick,but at least I’m not writing about you.At least I can trace over the patterns of my scars just fine on my own.Maybe one day I will wake up in love with myself-some part of me still worth the same,left over from a half-forgotten dream.And then maybe I will write of city lights from the rooftop at two in the morning,of autumn smells and festival sounds that are just that,in themselves. Maybe I will look beauty right in the face and smile,maybe I will say to the old aches,not today.And then maybe my words will be worth microphones or even grace paper.Till then I still feed on tomorrows that won’t look as pretty as they do in my head,and yesterdays that never glowed the way they do on paper.

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wanting it to be winter-skip forward the festivities and the end of sem exams,a sudden craving hits as i lie among blankets with tea and books,the peculiar cosy i live for fits right into the winter warmth of kolkata-because this city is always warm,different hues one month at a time

the feeling of longing after so long-a heavy anticipation,restlessness at the possibility of a better way of existing and the oppressive sense of not being there-yet living on hope,always feeding on tomorrow

winter in kolkata is special because of its novelty,the absence of heat and humid and sweat for once-the novelty that heralds in a sense of possibility-if fairytales still exist,they will play out now,they should if they have any sense of propriety at all

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love was supposed to be majestic. all the good art made it so. parting is such sweet sorrow. anne shirley and gilbert blythe finally kiss. you go back to her i go back to black. shall i compare thee to god knows what on earth. you explode in my heart. it does not matter. rust to rust. stardust to stardust.

when it is evening and the smoky haze of kolkata autumns shroud you in warm anticipation. till it is sunlight again and the sweat has dried to salt on your back. sweet sick sticky mess,feet stuck. this does not make me glorious. not even in magnificent tragedy of loss, self concocted of course. this makes me tired cough up the same tired metaphor thrice in a row then lose track. this makes me feed off other people’s words and wonder why my love never looked like that. not galaxies  opening up but a five year old scribbling with crayons on a wall. maybe because it never was. or maybe it was. just humane.just off to an honest, inglorious start-indignity at the bud,everything else-all the beauty in the after I couldn’t stick around long enough for.

i don’t know.just.my poetry isn’t pretty anymore yet. it has been a year almost since I can’t write without a something else guiding my words.

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not you.the idea of love finally coming my way and saving me,when the only person who can do that is me. not love,the idea of love-that old cliche.not you.the idea of a chance at happiness. a non-lonely place.never love.anxiety betrayal hurt.not love.

only,why do i keep asking myself what i did wrong.why the idea of the right thing changed every second.when there was no such thing as the right thing.

maybe it was love.maybe not.maybe it was,and a whole lot of effort i am not ready for. how does it matter. you are not the fixable kind. i am not the loveable kind.

only,only the idea that we could have been so. the idea of coming home to anything but this dull throbbing that is less hurt,more the absence of feeling.at all. then again,you as a ticket to some other place.

not you not love never that.

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Things are bad for me on occasion. Sometimes my life belongs to the realm of the dramatically disastrous. But mostly it doesn’t.

Mostly,that is when things get really,really scary. See,there is this gray that has been chasing me around since ever as long as I can remember. I packed my bags to run away at ten, I picked up pace at eleven,I was flying at seventeen but I seem to have come back a full circle now,running straight into its arms when least expected.

See,my disasters mostly look like swallowed truths and last night’s smudged liner. My disasters are mostly quiet. Shut bathroom doors,nothing a little water sprinkled in the face can’t fix. Long sleeves are impractical anyway,in Kolkata weather.An overplayed song or two,some long forgotten lyrics still in my head. Headaches. Crumpled paper. I’m such a fucking mess it’s hilarious-no,mom,i swear  I am okay.

I was going to be happy by now and sometimes i am,sometimes I am soaring,lungs full and I can’t breathe this is terrifying put me down.

What I am saying is I’ve been dreaming in black and white for a while now,and it’s a little scary to look light in the face without it being blinding

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