Him, Her, Me, It

I was your whore. With the black stockings. Voluptuous body mine. Whore girl. Girl whore. Make love to me. Intense, head banging one. You keep walking out. Like a cut-paper doll. My doll. My love. I kept waiting for you last night. The biting cold penetrated my bone marrow but the door was open. It is still open.

My skin is marked. By you. By him. By her. Never by me. My mother didn’t give birth to me. I dropped down from the sky. Plop! Just like that. For I was meant to be your whore. You love me? Nay. Your circumstances are my god; love god. I wasn’t allowed a say when I gave you my heart, my body. I still am not allowed one when you are shoving it all in my face with a simple ‘thank you’.

I cried today: for you, for her, for myself, for it. My life is a package of ‘thank yous’. I go around collecting them in my rucksack. Just like a useless, tired postman. Hear me, love. I don’t want to be your ‘letter’ anymore. Stop posting me.

‘Amid your dewy silences, I find myself;
A heaven; a haven, which we are.’

Killer Girl

For R.

In your insanity and in mine, I find relief. Crackling fire: burn, burn higher! Flip the moments, the pain, the love and the accusations. Our wanton togetherness. Gone! All gone! The smiles, the gratified times, the clinging together. Foreverness. They came in between. Hail me, love. My hand fits yours. It does. God! Burn me in the licking disgrace of my love. Desperation. Killer girl, you did it! Whisper to me, sing me those charming lullabies; anything. A conviction for your ‘stay’. Rise up, water body. You are meant to survive this. You WERE meant to survive all the ends! You have no choice for sinkage, for useless tears or the ‘healing’. The wheels of the Pattern are in motion. Hands cease to be! Words evacuate! Brain hemorrhage; into the barren ground; into life itself. Fertility. I’m not me. Girl. Woman. Bastard. Friend, bastard, friend, bastard. Was this your love? Was this my love? Our ridiculousness!

Our Patterns

A heartbeat of a pause, a singe; another rose bush. The velvety, plush red heart petals that were me and the dewy green, quiet brutal thorn that was you. The ‘bang smash kiss’ we shared. And the words. You popped in mine suddenly. Just like that. I wrapped each syllable around your persona, caressingly. Sugar baby, honey bloom; all mine. Your hands gently bruised out the criss-crossing patterns on mine. I would tie you; air tight, all balloon-ey around my neck and wear you. A charm. But I will sit here: vulnerable, dejected and somewhat a little hurt. Your exploits will continue. The moon will pucker her lips and swallow you whole. She will bounce around in her halo- with you. While I will breathe you in: poisonous gas and continue doing so until my lungs resembles a marshmallow and my heart, the crunched up soft candy, under your boots, under her’s too.

Wishing On A Star?

I broke off the pieces of love; from my body. The crumbling bits in my hands resembled your crumbling words and fear. My need to step forward and the slight feverish blotch that wipes it all away. So I take out this big eraser and rub you out for tonight. I know I’m a fool enough to draw you again but I’d be damned if I would not be this obsessively foolish girl-woman for you.

I’m happy to be this numb tonight. I donot want to expose my nakedness to you, for you, for anyone. Don’t caress me. I am not my ‘talent’. I am just skin and bones and lots and lots of water. Cut off my nose, my lips, my breasts. And it will be the same. Layers and layers of them. I’m not your grocery item to be ‘viewed’ and ‘labeled’. I am my own lover, my own doctor.

I was 5 when they asked me about you. Not yet pushed into the world but slightly midway. I smiled my milky teeth smile and talked about you at length. Since then I have thought of nothing. I’ve finished wishing on my wishing star. I stopped believing ten minutes back. Five minutes later, it broke off and crashed straight into me.

My first crash.

36 Hours?

This is the moment; with screams; terrible; gnawing; biting. Another bite of the escapade. I have shut the doors with God waiting outside. He must have this time alone too. In the meantime, I must hurry back and kill the ‘voice’ that is you. Yes, everything else is perfect. Insomnia wraps me in its gentle touch; a curse of the ethereal. Stranger, beautiful, utterly exotic stranger, it’s happening. Mother, you ignorant paragon of love, the ultimate hand strucks 12. Sister, dear sister, it’s the zone again; the zone of condemnation, of puked up jumbled, hypocrite ideas and of me. 36 hours? Yes; gone; wasted; used; a fine monster-cracked, pathetic swamp.

The Vital Life-Line

And suddenly everyone around is alive; gay, jittery laughs, blazing accomplishments, while my spinster self paints the mask of borrowed laughs, borrowed moments and squeezed words. Oh! If life, if God would only come and grip me in all it’s reality; the rib-cracking hug. Sweetly, not to ruffle the shadows of what waits to spring from the crouch. I, too, would then be very much alive and human. Sam’s departure won’t prick me with that blade-like intensity nor would the loss of what was once my connection to all that I deemed life.

I demand moments barricaded to my puny self. The vital life-line. Even she is that blot I want to cradle and scratch away at the same time. The devotion in her starry eyes, the exuberant worship in her every word triggers the monster within me. I’ll eat her, if not all those who were wrong. She will be wrong too. At the right moment. And with the same starry eyes. Instead, to bless and haunt myself, I must condemn her love, I must squeeze it in front of my trusting eyes –not to her, ofcourse, I can never be that pathetic- as a reminder.

These days are mild, stagnant. At a time like this, I want nothing more than to shut my eyes, smell the biting cold, the enigma of this wintry substance, and cut my jugular. It exactly feels the right moment to be neurotic, to die, and yes even to sacrifice all those dreams for what days they will bring in their shelter preoccupies my thoughts.

I want a peaceful end. God promise me a peaceful sleep devoid of such atrocities as the Day of Judgment. O, Mother Earth! Promise me a heavenly smelling, comfortable piece of ground without any grudges of not accomplishing all those things for you and your children. I believe, someday, some lifetime away, after me, there will be someone of my progeny- not the chest-ripped girl every woman seems to give birth to, but the birth of my ideas, my hopes and dreams. And hopefully, she would carry on with my blinding legacy with the courage and determination I seem to lack in these monstrous moments.

My life shall pass. It passes even now. And I let it go with my own accordance…

Flowers, I give Thee Flowers!!

Today, these fingers lift of their own accord, rejoicing the union of the pouring of words and the gentle tapping sounds as I hit each letter. Its been long. And it certainly has been tiring. I have come a long way since then. The days, they roll by, and I, in an attempt to savor each moment, try to lick every single drop as the eating of an ice cream. The gentle dissolving of the slightly cold and sugary foam penetrates me. I miss those times. I miss those days, those utterly causal ones, when I would pass time by reading three to four books one after another and just walk into the night, pondering. But these days, they certainly have their charms too. The excruciating, nerve-breaking tensions, the need to juggle all these tasks at once and come victorious; it has its own aura. How selfish I am to desire everything!

However, these past few days have taught me a lesson. I hate writing essays; they are certainly not ‘MY THING’. Writing them has been a very painful and monotonous endeavor, especially the given ‘stupid topics’. I’m glad to be back to my ‘usual style’. *smiles with relief*

P.S: Salman Latif, I am your companion in that ‘not so fair feeling’. I have been busy with Shahbaz Sharif’s English Essay writing competition and ofcourse, college. My time hasn’t been wasted since I got 2^nd Position at District and 1^st Position at Divisional level. However, you will have to cater to this ‘absence’ since the next round and my sendups are round the corner. Happy?

Satire Light

She tells me I’m crucial to her survival: she is dependant on me. I’m that ‘something she’d give everything away for’. I tell her that shouldn’t be the case. She’d get hurt. Surprisingly, I’m hurt. Those words. I love her. But she’s not crucial to my survival. Infact, no one is apart from my sister. Yes, its bad, isn’t it? I know the rest of them will disappear, as those bubbles in the bathtub, and they are those leisured momentary ‘bubbles’ for me to laugh along and for.

I wasn’t always like this. Two years back, every person in my vicinity was crucial to my survival. Two years back when I lost my friends, my ‘familiar place’, and my life; I lost that feeling of linking someone to my survival or any kind of ‘cruciality’.

Far away

This ship is taking me far away

Far away from the memories

Of the people who care if I live or die.

The way he says it: Starlight. With that accepted tenderness and agonized, jumbled misshaped feelings. I want to sing along too. But I am afraid I’ll mar the velvety, soft texture of the words. They will slip out- the wrong way. I will slip out the wrong way. Let it dissolve, taste yummylicious in its own texture.

My life

You electrify my life

Let’s conspire to re-ignite

All the souls that would die just to feel alive.

This song is mine. She’ll never fade away. They’ll never fade away. Nor will I.

And I can see their faces in my head, like that grotesque happy vision. Rolled film? Those who were, those who are and those who will be. I see them all. And for now

I just want to hold you in my arms

I just want to hold you innnnnnn my arms

I just want to have you frozen in my head

I just want to have you frozen innnnnn my head…

The Tide Is Finally In

Clang. Clang. Clang. *wipes sweat off her face*

The imagined castle is finally down- to the base. I can finally be at rest. The gate opens, and the torrent rushes in; it keeps coming, those little blobs of tensions and sweats: magnitude?

These days, I despise myself. The bobbing, Effie, up-to-date 5 feet girl-woman you see is not me. It can’t be. But U-N-F-O-R-T-U-N-A-T-E-L-Y it IS ME!!! Everything is perfect. Somehow, miraculously I have donned on this double role of studying and giving tests simultaneously; in the morn and the eve and the hastily scribbled sheets labeled (25/25, 12/12) etc glare me in the eye, beadily. This is what I have always wanted. I am so close to my goal that I can reach up and touch it. But….

I am not happy. And I’m afraid. Very, very afraid.

I am straying away; from my path, my mission, myself. I am struggling to break of these bonds, to escape. I want to stop feeling honor bound, stop limiting myself to principles. I want a week. I want to break free and do the most horrifying, mouth-gaping, bitchy stuff and not feel. But feel I must. As long I have this nervous system coupled with a brain, all this is a dream I must dream.

My personal life is in shreds; friends want the same old carefree me back which is not at all possible. I have finally woken up from my slumber and I’d be damned if I go and bury myself in that cozy bed, no matter how inviting it is! My parents; they are in a shock. Hahha. Yeah, they can’t believe I have finally gotten sense and stopped brooding and moaning over the FSC dilemma. Their shock is followed by countless ‘pyaar’.

But only God knows the pressure that bursts my head like in cartoons the top of the head detaches and hovers in the air. Only God is witness to the inner battle, those frequent glances at the green, those bolstering writing pieces to keep going on.

I want something, desperately. And right now I don’t even know what it is..

Gilay Shikway Sab Bhula Do

Crazed

Amid these cold disparities, the sudden brush-like strokes and the daily executions, I’m a tool. What is the frame of reference, she asks? Isn’t it enough that a life is passing- my life- in the wind of the cut-axe, the whiff of the rust driven blood.

Some depression is an aggravation of what was. Other is a film in chronological order of what is. And the remaining? An enigma of what will be. Tonight, in this terrible terrible knowledge, an encore; trailed by the daily mental assaults from every part of the universe, I break off: the binding schedule, the grotesque mask of keeping it polite (yes, now is the moment to axe away all those deplorers of not hurting anyone) and that constant comfortable couch that is presented to everyone.

Sleep, it brings with it brutal consciousness in the black folds. The retina; bursts forth to welcome all that light. Out in the open, screams dare to scratch their way to the throat and then….the green…it faces me. And all that remains- a kill; the kill of a life –my life- every life, every world, God.
Insanity; let me not suffer these bouts of sanity. Envelop me in your madness. And I will come quietly, for once.

Winter 'Spots'

Winter, my lady winter is here. As I walk home, the chilling needles tickle me gently. I laugh. And then I cry. I cry for this terrible terrible moment where life is me and I’m life itself. But I have my work. The sky dissolves in me; the tears drip down and cuddle the freshly chilled angel in me. I will work. Being stagnant; that’s what scares me the most. And I’m stagnant. Time, that limitless tick tocking deceiver, let it say it all. God! Bring me new ideas, bring me time so I can write and somehow cry over the ‘pathetic spots’ I have displayed here. I need to cry, with God, with myself.

To Whom It May Concern (And Let It Fall In The Wrong Hands)

To the doctor (if it concerns you as much as you let on with all your ‘high talk’): I am cold. I will be cold. Mother will bash your face like she did mine. With reality. Every morning, every evening. And the needles you carry will fuse themselves in you. And I will metamorphose into that psychotic pain you so talk about. I will see how your dwindled, bald head dares to speak about the ‘plunge in life’. Shove all your medical preppy, on-the-surface talk right back into your intestines. And it’ll get worse. Every hour I will become that promise that dream, that memory and you, that empty vessel of horror within. You will scream every night, wake up with the sweat clinging to your back and wet tears soaking your face like a sponge and then I’ll see your mightiness. All you will think of is you selfish, worthless back. You can hug all those medicines to your bosom. And I will hug my ‘wake up call’, an enigma, every lifetime. For you will be the white cloaked, white teeth glinting, white stubbed stethoscope doctor. And the medicines? Leave them with the pain for morrow’s story.

Lost You

Me: You have to find the 'Lost You' through dreams, adventures and miracles. Only then this darkness will fade into light.

Hero?

Me: How do you become a hero?

H. : When you don't PLAN on becoming one.

Note: Love you, H., for these terrific mind pondering conversations. <3

And I Cry Out!

The fog blows; disintegrates into those blinded wisps of my uncertainty. By some miracle of incidents and that heavily bubbled hot bath I am somewhat in motion with what is to be. Acceptance. I scratched it out. Nevertheless, I cried for you today. Your remembrance came out as the dried-up final blow of what we had desired.

The mental tirade tonight left me quite exhausted. I hugged you close and tried to push myself forward. For some unknown reason, I blame myself. I should have been enough to cease this battle going within you. And yes, I’ve been talking about just leaving it all. The constant mental assault is enough to make me wish for Alzheimer’s.

For now, just let me hug you close and hope that we remain together for eternity. *whispers tearfully*

Moulin Rouge- A MUST!

After watching Rent, I wanted to hear the songs of Moulin Rouge, my favorite movie ever and somehow I found this trailer! It's a really beautiful and heart-wrenching movie and I would like my readers to watch it if they haven't, especially Salman, Hafsa and Awais. :)

Kishwaray Hassen Shaad Baad

Oh, dear Quaid! O, Father of the Nation! O Creator! We are falling. Falling.

I see the blood. I see it thrashing to the ground in great big folds. I see the carefree, gay laughter of our youth and the tears and whimpers of our elders. Don’t you see it?

I see the unbecoming, selfish behavior of our leaders. I see our enemies penetrating these lovely green boundaries you struggled for. Don’t you see it?

I see the ignorance, the selfishness creeping on every Pakistani like a fungus. Oh, where did you find the blood; that sound, boiling, josh marta hua blood that now rests under this wounded land? Don’t you see it?

I light my candle and go in search of that blood worthy of a ‘Pakistani’. I am led to a graveyard.

Who are these deaf, mean people? They are not my brothers and sisters. How can they laugh in these times, talk about their petty interests when we are drowning?

Oh, God! Help me heal my Pakistan. Help me doctor it. Help me guide my people. Help me protect my Pakistan…

Skipping In The Clouds

The nadir has finally passed. Replaced by something infinite; celestial. The boundaries of drenching happiness bursts around me like soap buds and forms again. God knocked on my door today. He handed me down my path. He kissed me on the forehead and whispered in my ear.

Heaven evolved. Right here, on this barren earth.

I laughed. That happy carefree laugh of the unborn babe in the womb.
God laughed.
I couldn’t help it. I ended into raucous peals of laughter.

The Next Round

So, here I am. Whittling in a square of do’s and don’ts; around this edge you pushed me into. I gave up my ovaries, my uterus and these unworthy laden-with-wounds breasts for this life I am desperately trying to sell myself for. I am quiet now. Gone are those days when I craved for those meaningless wishes and fragile dreams you knocked with your little finger.

Life plays me. The world plays me. People, God; everyone plays me! Another stressful week is nearing its end and here I am working with this possessed insanity I acquired as soon as I realized it was the one thing in my life, independent of humans. And now I foresee the human who will throw the trump card and clear the table for the next round of cards..

Pure Knowledge

Me: You know what? To me doctors are saviors, missionaries of God. Prophets. I have always wanted a doctor so badly to save me. And I think I can be that doctor to save others. Mine never came. And I experimented with medicines myself and reached this state of Pure Knowledge where I won't kill others with those medicines like I killed myself innumerable times.

Tere Qadmon Ko

Guzri Hui Hoon Dastan, Bhoola Hua Khayal Hoon

After all the thousand times I have told you I love you, how could you let one word break your faith in me? -Edward Cullen.

I don't trust myself to be... enough. To deserve you. There's nothing about me that could hold you. -Bella Swan.

Time passes. Even when it seems impossible. Even when each tick of the second hand aches like the pulse of blood behind a bruise. It passes unevenly, in strange lurches and dragging lulls, but pass it does. Even for me. -Bella Swan.

Maiden Of Reality

Yes, you: the maiden of reality. You, who had previously crashlanded in God's territory, are now back at the beggar's flat. The same old whimsical tragedy fate is playing you. The one where there are no fairies or nymphs. No laughter. Just catatonic faces of the words you scratch out.

Fragmented Whispers

His name that brushes against my ear, whispering symphonies of disjointed pleas. He runs me in like that gleaming window of my pain. I gather him to my chest placing those iron-metal kisses on that acidic medium; it burns my lips in an undefined way.

God come with his blowpin and sucks him out of me. My heart, that vital blood raining organ joins him in an attempt to atone for the breakway that was never mine. For his heart pumps the life in me.