Archive | October 2012

The Never-Ending Thirst

(I’m not good enough and never will be.)

“You are smart, you are pretty, you are cool, never think the otherwise.”

(Stop lying.)

“I’ll be there for you when you need me.”

(Don’t make a promise you can’t keep.)

“You are cool, you know that? And I love you for who you are.”

(Flattery won’t work on me.)

“Ignore them, ignore those who try to put you down. You’re beautiful and you know it.”

(No, I don’t and no, I’m not.)

“I love your smile, I love your hair, I love how your eyes beam in amusement– I love everything about you.”

(Stop talking, stop saying anything.)

“Do you believe what I said?”

(I’ll give you the percentage of possibility.)

“I wasn’t lying.”

(The answer is zero. Zero percent.)

Hands trembling and lips quivering in fear (or was it anxiety? Amusement, anxiety, curiosity… lust?), the clock screams of laughter a clown joker digging his sharp, sharp treacherous nails into her skin, veins and pulses crying for mercy. Picture frames on the wall and fingers pointing, penetrating the invisible borderline, they sneer and laugh and dance and oh, the room is now an explosive party of agony and regret.

But there were no champagnes for she didn’t prepare any; there were no food, no drinks, no guests. No nothing – just her and the ghosts, no others.

Damp and airless, the room is a chamber of torture; the flow of crimson beauty like a phoenix’s fiery breath and she hisses through gritted teeth, veins and pulses – once again – crying for mercy.

Stop, stop, stop.

One drop, two, three, four– and more to come–

No air escaped, the nausea rising up her esophagus and she sticks a finger down her throat, screaming more, more, more with watery eyes begging her conscience to stop, stop, stop because the pain grew and evolved into a drug she can no longer avoid – marijuana, crack, heroin, cocaine…

The pain grew, the sting evolved and voices transcended into a higher level of eruption, invisible bubbles burst – one by one, pop by pop – and her ghostly guests clapped meticulously, calling out for more entertainment, more cuts, more bruises, more bloodshed, more tears…

She’s their only entertainer, the only spotlight.

We’re back to square one:
Fingers tremble,
lips quiver,
eyes blubbering,
                                              a razor in action.

The first one started out short, the second one longer, the third even longer, the fourth and fifth longer than before and the cycle repeats itself, the replay button being abused.

She chuckles; boy, did she chuckled and yes, she did.

‘When was the last time you breathe?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘When was the last time you cut?’

‘Last night, few seconds ago, few hours ago, few minutes ago – everyday.’

Picture frames hanging by the wall, a group of sinister sneers erupt in a flurry of madness, the party a full blast with no champagnes but growing silence and ghostly fingers trapped in a trance of illusion, trying to wrap themselves around her neck and snatch away the last essence of life from her heart; thump, thump, thump, it’s still alive and beating – a promise she had once betrayed. But ghosts don’t wait, oh they despise waiting

‘When was the last time you breathe?’

‘You will get your answer tonight.’
The haunting music proceeds in escorting the flowing waterfall of red smudging the bathtub.


The Evil Beyond


“John, do you know what’s beyond this glass?”
“Noise, people, everyone… the world.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“Your cup’s empty.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“You’ve finished your coffee.”
“I’m staying.”

“The sky’s growing dark.”
“I’m staying.”
“Jane, are you alright?”
“I might be, if I don’t go outside, that is.”

The Touch Before The Wilt

We have hellos and goodbyes for a reason; we arrived, we met, we talked, we parted. You and I know how time ticks and never were we allowed to keep something, even the slightest touch and breath shared, locked up in a box, eternally.

But here I am so listen out; hands buried inside the pocket of my jeans and I’m asking with a swelling pride and overwhelming arrogance in my chest: can I have another five minutes to keep your fingers tangled against mine? Just five minutes, I’m not ready to let you go. Not yet.

There is not much time

“I want a friend who listens,” you say;
“I want a friend who listens and not judge,” you say;

And here lies an answer; “You only have so little to demand for so much.”

The broken barricade

You surround yourself with people whom you’d like to call as friends.
They laugh, you tag along; they talk and you listen.

They laugh at lame jokes over bottles of beer and games of poker,
You cheer and cry and toast – clank, the sound of glass against glass – like you understand,
But you don’t. Not ever, not even once.

When they laughed, you stayed quiet and listened; their voice breaking through all barricades in the room,

People you can never understand with because boy, do they live in a different world than you do.