Category Archives: short prose

Kiss them drunk

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We’re conditioned to doubt ourselves. To think twice before we act and draw lines between everything. A friend can’t be a lover just as love cannot be synonym to lust. Differentiation is what marks the small space between sanity and insanity. You can’t kiss drunk. You can’t spell love and lust within the bones of the same man. It makes me anxious to see how we’re taught an appropriate behavior. In trying to chase “forever”, we find the present slipping away. Out of reach. Out of grasp. Suddenly, only a concept of what could have been.
Next time maybe, don’t over think and kiss him drunk? Because, there are no right or wrong people. They’re just people who were best for you during that time and now they aren’t anymore.

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Exception not the norm

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Sometimes love doesn’t show up at your window
Holding a rose
Asking you to come out for a kiss

Sometimes love seeps through
3 a.m wave of insomnia and memories
Asking you to reach out with a text

“Awake?”

Lovers United

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Depression. It’s like a lover that sweeps me up in its arms and throws me on the bed so hard that I end up breaking no bones but for the next few weeks, I can hardly get out of bed.
No. I don’t want to be yours, anymore. I see it go away and muster the strength to start afresh in life. Every effort against it is a win. I think I’m winning.
But, I am afarid.
I’m afraid that it is still there lingering like a shadow ready to turn into a ghost that will haunt me. It stares at me from outside the window and I am too afraid to let fresh air in because I cannot run the risk of letting it come back.

Depression is back. Sometimes the emptiness in my chest gets so heavy that I find it hard to breath. I end up beating my chest to unclog my lungs in an effort to rid of this disease. It goes away but I’m not sure for how long. I wouldn’t know because last time I spent two months without it and bid it farewell.

What I’m saying is that the dark clouds are back again and like everytime, I fear that there would be no way out of this. I’ll crumple like a piece of paper in the corner of my bed and my bones would sink into the mattress. My chest would be empty and suffocation will be the death of me.
I see it smoking by the door. Depression.
It’s coming at me like a war torn lover coming home.

Wrong Places

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I wish to have loved you in another place. Maybe another continent where the sea could run through your veins and you wouldn’t have to worry about drowning. Maybe a place where the air is gentle on our skins and we do not fear it becoming a tornado. Maybe another land where we could have played with the constellations instead of mistaking a fallen star for a drone attack.
I wish to have loved you in another place, another time or another dimension.
All my life they told me to be wary of people who talk sweet but have poison lips. It’s a sacred body described in metaphors. They taught me to stay away from the ones who dare to paint their futures with blood stained hands because the likes of them are dangerous.
Men are dangerous.
Women are deadly.
I’ve been away far too long from those who wore their flaws like medals and declared war on their past to have the future that they painted.
I wish to have loved you in another place where my lips weren’t poison. We didn’t need metaphors to describe our love. I wish to have loved you in another place where the air swept through our pores and the tornadoes didn’t ruin us. A place where we could have played with the stars and your wish on the fallen one would come true. I wish to have loved you before I became one of them, another one from the lot of blood stained hands brewing poetry behind closed doors in an effort to taste freedom.
I have loved you in the wrong places but the time was always right.

Confusions

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I’m not good at letting things so. I guess that is why I try not to get attached. Attachment means vulnerability and I’ve never liked being vulnerable. Sometimes; it means exposing the galaxies inside your chest but how can I if mine is a black hole? I have no justification for what I do at times. The constant manic cycles that leaves you bloodied. Running back to you on lonely nights just to howl outside your door. At one point in time I thought I knew what love was like. It smelt like your cologne and cigarettes. Love tasted like tobacco and caffeine. Love felt a lot like shutting the world out on rainy days. Love was sneaking around with the adrenaline pumping through our veins. It was stolen. Our love was always stolen and sneaky. It was a chase. I still have no justification for leaving.
Sometimes, I wonder if I’m not able to let go of you or the feeling of love?

Preferences

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I’ve always preferred the fake.
Fake people
Fake intentions
And a fake reality
While the world boasts about being “real”, I say, “Give me the fake ones, Charles”. You see when you’re given the fake it’s easier to access the real. The sugarcoated fakeness helps pinning down exactly what is real within. When you’re real it’s too boring. Don’t equate being real with bravery. Everyone is scared. Bravery isn’t exposing your scars to the world. Everyone is scared so they hide. Bravery is how expertly you hide something with sugarcoated words and feelings. I like fake people, they’re more honest in their struggle. They know what they don’t have so they make it up. Now, you’re going to say that this is all fake but fake is what I like.

Sorry Not Sorry

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I’ve been spilled out to the world like an apology. “Sorry”, is a word that has been engraved in my marrow. It’s a war. A conquest to be something that I am never meant to be. Acceptance of current self is futile.
I was taught that empty prayers are better than silent hymns. It is better than what others have-defiance is wrong.
I run away, always, and apologize when I get caught. I’ve been spilled out like an apology. I am sorry.

Let us never think

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We’re tired. It isn’t the type of exhaustion that would go away if we take a good nap. I mean, we are just really tired. Staring at blue screens, smoking, eating and trying hard to not think. We will go to absolutely any length in order to not think. Start meaningless conversations with people whose existence does not matter besides, a screen to kill time. Our conversations are cyclic. Monotone and unvaried. We aim to kill time for something better but the “better” never comes.
We’re tired, all of us. Plain expression, empty laughs and low on empathy.
Let us guise ourselves in shades of happiness. Regular meetings with friends, hugging in public, affection over phones and constant smiles.
We’re all tired but we won’t admit it because if we do then we think and thinking is what we are trying to avoid since the beginning.

Foreign In My Native Land

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“They wouldn’t understand you,” she said and I knew what she meant. I have multiple people trapped inside who refuse to leave me alone unless their story is told.I feel every emotion with twice the force and sometimes days go by without feeling anything.

“Love is constant and you’re not.”, she said

I don’t have a constant.
I have variables.
I lack empathy.
I have a false bravado.
I don’t have weak knees.
I have a stiff back.
I refuse to let my guard down.
I will drown you within myself.
I love you.
I refuse to be with you.
I am voices trapped inside your head and the person you know but never meet.

Before love turns cold

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Some days we’re like lovers in France. He holds me and tells me that I’m all his. I hold his hand and know that he is mine, forever. At times I whisper, “Iloveyous” into his crooked bones like a prayer. Other times I wander around his body trying to find something that would make me fall in love with him. He laughs at me for loving him but only after he broke my heart and before he broke my hand.
He says that I don’t know how to love, unless they are broken and need fixing.
“You don’t love, babe”, he says,“You try fixing what can never be fixed”.
I see in him a child who lost his way seeking shelter in an abandoned house hiding behind the sink so that the storm doesn’t knock him out. It is a game where we both hide and days go by before one of us is found.
On the good days he lets me in and we crash into each other like it is the only way we know how to love. Messy and destructive. On the bad days he locks me out and I become an immigrant in our house. Shunned and ridiculed. Last night, I asked him to tell me three good things about himself but he couldn’t answer. Then I asked him to tell me the three flaws he has and he stated a list.
“What about you?” he said
“I try fixing what can’t be fixed and I don’t know whether this is a flaw or a merit.” ,I replied