at times i just can't stop crying.
there's a stale conversation on
the other side of my fractured window pane.
much like the red wine left cold
in the mug from last monday.
there are so many voices that
bleed into the air through
the morning light, like a
mosaic of the shards slicing my
bare forearm; like a fragment
of the last charcoal sketch of
wilted violets from my sister.
yet, sometimes i can never make myself cry.
no matter how hard i squeeze my eyes, or
how deep i plunge the razor into my blue flesh,
the voices clog all my tears.
it's only an unwelcomed silence that makes me
write about things i don't want to think of.
there's a wall of bougainvillea and betrayal
that always kills our exposed brain matters
and makes me the clown in the strip show
of lovers' language.
cigarette smoke rolls away from my vermillion lips.
it's started getting cold here,
numbing my limbs and dragging me
down to the garden of the dead.
there's a false god that cries over
our seven (hundred) sins:
it tastes like a forgotten toothache.
the sunlight burns my scalp and digs
the flesh of my brain until it bleeds.
sometimes there's nothing to think or cry about
except the bloom of red over
my already blotched skin.
the memories turn into red ashes, shredding
off their golden skins.
we aren't kids anymore; springs
die in the call of winter.
can i run away from here and never come back?
can i scream for death and let it consume me?
can i have a last birthday wish for everything
to be cliché again?
the voices don't go away. they wait
and wait and wait until you've turned into
a red lily crushed under rainboots.
can i rip my limbs off and burn my skin?
i know i can't. yet i try
and try and try,
pretending to be one of the violets
on my sister's grave.
━━━━━━━━━━━━
A/N: In crafting my poetry, I aim to delve into self-sabotage, shedding light on the nuanced pain of self-harm often overlooked in literature and conversation. My goal is not to glorify or wallow in this pain but to offer a lens through which the raw, unvarnished reality of such experiences can be understood and, perhaps, empathized with.
I sincerely hope that readers might find a measure of comfort or recognition in these verses and that these can serve as a beacon for those navigating their own complex emotional challenges.
With heartfelt wishes,
Sreeja.
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Poetry❝Like another silhouette washed in the blue of the November afterglow - a dying ache of living❞ ... || caffeinated afterthoughts and lovers' vomit ||
