I am twenty two winters, six heartbreaks, infinite breakdowns and two (near) deaths old.
1. My skin is nothing less than a graveyard of ink upon which every man i loved is allowed to leave a trace behind. A set of initials clutter my wrist, then follows the navy blue scarf with a knot which is still tight enough to cease a heartbeat, a cigarette for the one who taught me the "art" of healing and a small infinity that the canvas itself is afraid to be a victim of.
2. My tongue only recalls the taste of burning eulogies that I recite to myself to bed. On the verge of dawn my silhouette starts to wither with the smoke fumes that escape my ice cold lips. Then the daylight breaks and I wish to die, again. But here I am bleeding verses in every language I can grasp you in, wiping my tears with the sleeve of my sweater and laughing in between as I choke on my sobs.
3. I still seek for that faint residues of cigarettes and chocolates upon every stranger I kiss to relive my regret, again and again. I reach out to all the "flaws" that don't make them you and perfect them with one single word - mine. This darkness I am feeding myself to escape from your absence feeds on me instead. I am cold and you are not here. Again.
4. I am afraid to show people the world I create with my ink, mainly because I don't want them to know that beneath these flesh and bones all I am left with are trigger warnings and a heart which feels guilty everytime it beats. Sometimes I wonder whether silence would have been this loney if I never raised my walls high. But I know I have fall alone, for love cannot live here. It won't survive in the world I give birth to.
Exulansis -n. the tendency to give up trying to talk about an experience because people are unable to relate to it.
Copyright © Bidisha P. Kashyap | Year Posted 2020