Cursing Game

Because, honey, screw it.

I can damn you with a little slap of my honesty and you will have to fucking thank me for it. I am 300 complaints packed in a suitcase filled with pointless maps and that rancid smell of uncertainty wrapped around my skinny shoulders like a shitty body mist. 400 unchecked emails of self improvement subscription and a boatload of the cheapest coffee laced with 4 teaspoons of brown ass sugar. I am a rattle of fuss and obligation in the morning but come midnight and I turn into a heap of inactivity. Always ready to jump at the closest cliff just to feel fear again.  Mainly the reason why they scratch names on tombstones in the first place.

 Because, honey, you won’t know.

I can stay on my feet for 3 days with barely enough sleep -practicing my craft and all the other things that make me rise up- and you will have to deal with the rush and jitter of extremes that pass through me like water. Unending, seemingless projects to keep my mind spinning as it whirlwinds downward in a caffeine haze -my heartbeat barely a whisper to the passing minutes of sleeplessness that help me calm slowly. I run through days at a slower pace because every second is a moment spent weaving pieces of my shattered self together.

I am charcoal stained fingertips and Jasmine tea. French movies with no subtitles and poetry with no subtlety. I am inconsistent heartbeats and quiet notoriety. Spilling reckless words and literary molecularity.

So, honey, don’t you dare make me your comfort pillow. I am worth more than your bullshit.

Just remember I might have to fucking kick your whiny ass and you’ll have to thank me for it.

When I tell you in the morning

When I tell you in the morning
just before the sunlight touches
the tips and curves of the city,
before the water boils for our
morning coffee, that I had
dreamt up a nightmare with you
please do believe me.

You see, nightmares are nothing less
than daydreams born off grey clouds
and if I can paint a million colors to
your name then perhaps ash stained
fingertips and lavender bruises
kissed by words spat on dinner tables
are just as lovely.

You see, I am a whirlwind catastrophe,
a paradox breathing and walking through
blissful Decembers to desolate Januaries.
I am the taste of regret, a thousand
should-bes dancing in my tongue. I am
the screaming howl of hail and storm.
Winter’s frightful daughter clutching
the arm born off Mid-Summer’s Eve.

You see, you are the gentle lapping
of waves in the afternoons -drifting
back and forth in the sand, a continuous
unending promise of calm. A drink of
the finest wine and pancakes cooked
to a crisp. You are the sound of home
burnt to the ground by the anguish of
broken kitchenware strewn on
marble floors and plastic tabletops.

So please do believe me,
when I tell you that it would be nothing
less than privilege to remain miserable
in your company. To dine in hell every
evening if it meant waking up to the
sound of your breathing in the pale
cold light of morning. Even if it means
wiping gently old wounds just to leave
new ones of your making.

Lovely,
I would self destruct at 5 am and make
cigarette butts off my numbered days
if you listen to my nightmares amidst
sausages and coffee.

Apparently

I am not enough
for your hands to warm
during rainy days and breezy
evenings amidst starlit
conversations drowned
in feverish buzz because

Apparently,
if you can choose whose
footsteps you’d like to hear
in the threshold of your mind
it would be hers and not mine
because

Apparently,
I can learn to sway to every
music sung to me and yet still
remain sitting at the edge of
your tongue, slipping
simply because

Apparently,
if time had been kind and the
creases of weeks wasted in war torn
bedroom floors had been
spent on afternoons tap dancing
on balconies and
emptied hallways I would have
been the muse to all your
drunken musings on
Thursday evenings but

Apparently,
I am too late to the
the ball I was never invited
in the first place

Atheist

I had stopped looking for God
in the crossfire of my Sunday mornings.
Bitter coffee spiteful
of prayers left unheard and
nightmares laid certain.

I cannot love you.
I have not much left to give. I am
too busy self destructing to love
anyone else’s scars other than
my own. So don’t make me
sing hymns to your name when I
can barely sing myself to sleep.

I cannot love you.
You had made an atheist out
of a devout, blind servant and now the
glaring dimness of stained glass
windows amidst the dull
murmur of trains engines
repulses
me.

Damn me then.

With all those deemed despicable
who had never tasted a drop
of your divine kindness. Scratch my
cheeks with forgiveness, ripping
flesh and bone in
holy intervention.

Damn me then.

Damn me then.

Damn me.