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Love

Love, Self Image

I Don’t Always Have a Title

Women – Charles BukowskiI

Some of us are hard to love. We doubt and push till your will is broken. We don’t intend to, but if we were our intentions, we’d be labeled “danger, do not love.” We crave that which shudders at our touch because that is what we know about love. But we are not hard to all forms of love. We open our hearts to the poetry of touch, haikus recited between thighs, the brave seek our centers.

The brave stay long enough to notice the myriad of women I have been. I was the woman that dreamed of being like roots. Not in the sense that they spread over large distances but in the sense that their heart was in one place. This version wanted to stay, I would stay in a burning house because that is where my heart was. The other version wanted to leave. There was a fire beneath my feet that made me incapable of staying in one place. I found love and celebrated it by planning my escape. But there is a version that wants nothing. Sometimes amidst all this fire, I sit and dream of nothing. There is no urge to flee or stay, merely to exist. None of these versions is easy to love but they are all worth it because above all, they will love you with ease.

My love is a baptism of fire, even I am not saved from it.

Love, Poetry

Captain’s Log

Poetry spills from my lips so it’s harder to write when I have someone to kiss.


On a hot as fuck day in October, we kiss. I make it a point not to remember the day because I promised myself I wouldn’t be sentimental anymore. So, I didn’t. All I did was numb myself to it as it washed over my existence. It built up beneath my mask until I scratched it out.

It’s a starry night in December, the shit poets dream about, and we are still together. Poets dream about things like this too; pushing deadlines till they cease to exist. So here we are somehow existing beyond our shelf life, stumbling drunk from the bar as I lean on you, I tell you I am attached to you.

It’s hot again in January but now the heat is different. A paradoxical heat because it brings forth destruction in a month of new beginnings. We reached our shelf life. We burnt it all and we each carry equal blame.

On a foggy morning in February, we are drifting in the unknown, we talk about the Phoenix. You said sometimes we must burn to create. We will burn again, but not today.

Poets describe love as a fever that cannot be put out unless the beloved is within reach. Maybe my  words are a symptom of that fever.

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“We were prone to so many disasters — lives lost to suicide, minds wrecked, hearts marooned in the backwaters of time, bodies burning with pointless obsessions — and we gave each other a hell lot of trouble.”

– Pinball, Haruki Murakami

Love, Nostalgia

The Ennui of Forgotten Love. 

We exist in undertones and silence, never black or white but a shade below grey. You never took me anywhere you couldn’t fuck me, but I came anyway (the double entendre that defines us, the only thing we didn’t blur)
I get blackout drunk and in my last moments of lucidity, my tongue is numb and all it tastes is your name. So I’ll call you at 3am to stutter my ultimatums but all you make out is “I wish you talked about me the way you talk about my pussy.”
Turn the tables and it’s you at my house at 10pm. You walk in and leave sobriety out there. How your world stops when I leave, and other dreams you sell.
I was yours for so long and now I don’t know how to be anything else. But that’s not true, I tell myself this so you remain relevant. Was it love if I don’t remember your birthday when you’re gone? You had a scar as big as my index finger, I can’t remember what thigh it was on. I can remember the first time my lips touched a cigarette but not when they touched your lips.
All you are now, is a fictitious person I write about from time to time. You are what I say you are.

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Love, Self Image

I Wrote This For You

“But you are gazing at me the way God gazed at Adam and I am embarrassed by your look of love and possession and pride. I want to go now and cover myself with fig leaves. It’s a sin this not being ready, this not being up to it.”

– Jeanette Winterson, Written On The Body

“You sound like your mother.” – He said it to hurt me. He means the worst parts of her. A double edged insult, I can never be the best parts of my parents. I am somehow the worst halves of two amazing people.

“You drink like your father.” – My rebuttal is weak. His father doesn’t drink. But mine does. Freud was right to a degree, I am dating my father.

“You aren’t her.” – This should be a compliment but it isn’t. He loved her, he had a child with her. I’m the phase that comes after all the good times have passed.

“You aren’t him.” – This isn’t a compliment. It isn’t intended as one either. I am not with the person I love and I know this everytime we celebrate an anniversary.

“You are amazing.” – My insecurities see it as sarcasm. How could I ever be this unattainable concept that I am yet to fathom. But then again maybe it’s real and I am over thinking it like I usually do.

“I can’t do this.” – how I always end it. I am weary of this version of myself. It feels fake. I am searching for “real”  yet another concept I am yet to attain.

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Love

The February blog entry.

Then
It starts with words, I read him before I know him. We make love in euphemisms and humour (always his) and form a fantasy void of reason. Nervous laughter aptly expressed in emojis and incoherent speech, I ask him if he ever makes himself laugh this hard. I bid adieu to reason, I want him to touch me the way he writes.

“I’m always soft for you, that’s the problem. You could come knocking on my door five years from now and I would open my arms wider and say ‘come here, it’s been too long, it felt like home with you.”– Azra.T

Now
It happens so fast. One minute I am filled with resentment, I swear he will never touch me again. The next I am filled with fear, I am drowning and I need to hold onto something familiar. I am drenched in a longing I keep mistaking for love and he is drenched in certainty. He knows what hand will trace my spine to open me up. And I fight it, Lord knows I do. But the universe is my religion, and it keeps drawing me back to him. Hello turns into a kiss, unresolved feelings swept under a rug. Maybe this time he’ll stay.