Tonight its just too difficult to sleep..
So I get off my bed, switch on the damn lights
Rush to the table, pull out a pen and paper and begin to write
I write every word I have ever known. Every thing you made me feel…
I write about our side hug and a peck on the forehead. I write about the warmth in your embrace
I write about the all of you that I managed to absorb in all these years
Like a woman possessed, I write until I can’t feel my fingers
Until the letters blur away; until the saltwater turns the inky words into a turbid pool of black, and then I go ahead and write some more.
Forsaking hunger and thirst, I write till my throat feels parched. Then I go ahead and write some more
I write as the night turns to dawn; as my body sleeps, while my mind and hand races across the white parchment, setting it on fire
I write until my fingernails dig into the sides of my nail bed and draw out blood. Then I go ahead and write some more
I write on the oil-stained paper which held savouries. On the bus ticket near the mirror. On the petrol bill. On parts of my body
And when everything else fails, I dip my bloodied fingers in the ink, and craft out words in varying hues of black and red, all over the white walls
I write because I am tired of being in control. I feel this sanity choking me, constricting my pulse and running like acid through my veins.
I write because I am tired of forcing myself to spew out the exact amount of tears, and nothing more
Because since you left, there never really has been an outbreak of emotions this severe…
The monster has been unleashed n tonight, I don’t wanna reign it in…
Responsibilities, sanity, control – right now, I don’t really give a shit.
I write because this is the only way I can be the real me; where I can drop my robes, stand naked in front of the mirror and examine the extent of damage wrought upon
I write to be stripped
Stripped off the debris of the ornate dress of your love
The dress we both tried in vain to fit me in; the one that had pins which drew blood from your fingers; the one that had the coarse cloth which chaffed my shoulders
I write to write you out of me
I write because that’s the only coping mechanism I have ever known