They are dying to come out of my mouth.
When you hear my stomach rumble,
I am not hungry.
Well, I might be.
But I know the difference.
The voices are the whispers,
Whispers of the butterflies in my belly and the words.
Them, planning a devious plan to tell the things that I must not say.
To tell her that I… I am weak.
I don’t like people running over me.
With bulldozers of rejection and truth.
I wish I can blurt right things at the right time.
Like “No, I am not okay. I have been sailing in the storms without a sail and a boat made of paper” but I end up saying “Yeah, heh, mood swings.”
Like “I know it is hard. Hard to digest the fact that I fell for you. Faster than the midsummer rains. Faster than the train of thoughts that come to you when you miss the step, faster than…Faster than the blood pumping in the veins.
The veins that now carry the messages written on rocks and castles, that we..um.. I think of writing on stars.
The words are planning a coup.
And thanks to you, my guard is already down.
So here I am, defenceless.
Waiting to be taken over by the very things I created.
That day when you said hi on WhatsApp…
4 seconds after I had said “sorry”.
5 minutes after I had said, “I can’t do it”.
6 hours after I had said, “we need to talk.”
7 days after we had chai and you had sutta at our regular place”
8 months after I wrote my first poem for you.
9 years after..9 years after I started believing in love at first sight.
I almost typed in “listen, I like you. No, scratch that. I FUCKING LOVE YOU.
The strings are no more attached.
You don’t control me anymore.
But the empty thread holes and the dent in my heart stretch and ache at every sighting of yours.
Drawn to you like it is meant to be.
And the words have been heartbroken.
They still dwell in the past.
They still haven’t moved on.
So tell me this,
How does it matter if I have?”
*tik tik tik*
I just typed in “Nothing Much, you tell me.”
So the next time I meet you,
Maybe don’t think that I am too sweet if you see me smiling back at you.
I am just pressing my lips as hard as I can,
So that I won’t shoot fireworks out of my mouth.
So that I won’t say the things that the walls of my body hold together.
I am scared okay?
When she puts her head on my chest and hears the pounding of my heart,
I am afraid that the words will slip out from between the skipped beats.
The skipped beats have stopped visiting,
It is their own way of showing how they are mad at me.
And I miss that.
Mostly because they used to sit together and stick letters,
call them words and send them to my eyes and fingers.
The fingers often got good responses.
But the eyes gave mixed signals.
Look how they have ganged up against me.
Even the fucking eyes have been oozing with things left unsaid.
It is them, the words.
I can’t hold them.
So this is what they are doing,
Writing a poem.
This didn’t start as a love poem.
But it is turning out to be one.
Unlike our story,
This one will see its end.
Ours is a site under construction,
And the workers have scurried away because of the ghosts of the past.
Ours just sits by the west coast waiting to see the sunrise on an eclipse.
Ours is the word that didn’t make it on the last page of a book.
Featured Image made by Aishwarya Sainath