My Lover's Graveyard

Tonight as I scavenge for the lost pieces of you,
I will find hidden rhythms of myself

and for the first time
I choose to heal my wounds
Instead of bleeding myself trying to fix what's better left broken

- Arshia :)

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

the pangs of hurt at 17

When you're 17 , you think that your world begins and ends with the boy who treats you like dogshit. Who will tell you he loves you but tells 3 others he loves them too. Who will tell you you're never going to make it without him. He was my favourite illusion.  Fuck that. When you're 18 , well, there's a strange realisation that maybe you were wrong about life. the existential crisis hits. the floods of emotions break in. the unfathomable pain and hurt of knowing you deserve better. (i did deserve better, didn't i?) When you're 19 , the world seems cruel. everything hurts. everything sucks. its not any less painful like they said. 'I was the gifted one', 'Where did life go wrong', 'I was supposed to be  remarkable '  And then it hits you at 20 . Sometimes I think the world is pale and grey, edging into oblivion and darkness but then I dig into the blurry memoirs i write in my mind, with beautiful women and men who hold onto minuscule thre...
Read more

You're not like other girls.

You're not like other girls. you're different. he says. what he won't spill is how he would relish your taste till you sucked dry like the other girls he poisoned. So you yearn for his touch and ask him if your love is too much. You beg and cry and cry and beg. You unlearn your story and carve his name instead.  You see glory in his eyes and warmth in his arms. Warmth is good till it isn't. till his skin begins to burn yours. till his mouth tastes of unfulfilled vows and things he never told you.  So you learn and unlearn. You forgive and pray. You keep his secrets muffled with cries of poisoned apples. the 'rotten ones', the 'prudes', the 'sluts'.  You laugh at his jokes and read his books. till the words you knew, you forget. till the poems, you sang look back at you and fade.  You draw blood with rusty fingers and hope it's enough to satiate him. Enough for you to dig your grave and bury yourself with the pile of his 'conquests' Yo...
Read more

Dear Mr Henshaw

Image
  Dear Mr Henshaw A girl once asked me what my favourite book was. I told her it was 'Jane Eyre' so she wouldn't be repulsed by what I truly had to say. In all honesty, I can't remember the last time someone asked me about my favourite book and I answered the question correctly.  It's 'Dear Mr Henshaw' by Beverly Clearly. They don't make books like those anymore, those whose words are enough to drown you in its lamp of sorrow but also make you the happiest you've ever been. I re-read it every year around Christmas, not so much because I miss it, but because I'm afraid if I stop reading it, I'll forget about it. Isn't that what we're all terrified of? To forget more than to be forgotten? I often wonder if its so much about the book or the keepsakes that came with it. A little bit of both maybe.  Perhaps its the certainty of suffering an already acquainted fate. With books and people both. Beggings of a familiar grief. Better a known hu...
Read more