the

GIRL

blog.

Ode to sanity.

I shall not let him see my face bare,
Or stroke my skin without a veil-
I will not crack a smile before him,
For that will mean that I did fail-
To keep him distanced from my psyche-
The one I hope that will prevail,
Protecting all my inner thoughts, and feelings
From dismay.

Dog Training.

The psyche of dogs, and men alike, make them the most marginalised creatures eternally,
Both beg for a bone, because they’re one of the good ones- not like the rest,
Their kernel respect for you, the kernel humanity shown towards you deserves a treat,
A favour of sorts- something just for them.

When addressing your dog, remember: positive conditioning,
Provide the bone- do not make them beg,
Even worse, your lack of gratification for the basic respect shown towards you,
might cause an emotional tantrum of sorts for the little dog,
And you do not want that, do you? For you would be the very reason
A dog turns bad: and you do not want a bad dog, do you?

Yappy dogs, dogs wearing glasses, chad dogs, clad dogs,
Smart ones, the ones which undermine your intellectual integrity-
Worse even the ones who tell you you’re special, until nothing you show them
Is special- because you did not think your nudity was a requirement for basic humanity,
Respect. Until every aspect of your existence is you either running from little dogs or
Hiding from their burnished eyes in hopes your respect won’t be held ransom for your dignity.

Under the blossom.

I wish I’d let my body rest,
And fill my mind with flowers,
And feel the petals on my head,
Stick on my skin like plasters.

I wish your carnations were red,
And daisies were upon us,
And that the honeysuckle bloomed,
Commending all your honours.

But in our garden, nothing
Grows from disconnect with you.
Despite a sole wild rose, I dare not
Prune or loose.

And here I lay, bestowed bellow
The sky which now absorbs me.
I feel the petals skim my head as though this
Is a process; cocooning in my shell of pink,
I hope I don’t emerge. I take a final breath to
Break me from my one last urge.

A boozy poem for a special man/ Clearly I’m a masochist- exclusively for the emotional pain you cause me.

Curled, my hand is around your face; a sharp breath in is drawn,
Surprisingly, you look at peace- as if, this was deserved.
I’d love to hold your corps to sleep, stare deep into your eyes-
The impact makes your check recoil- they meet mine with a smile.

A single thought crawled in my head, infected introspection;
My hand collided with your cheek, despite all your perfection.
A mite has crept into my thought, though you did nest him there,
Lives in the attic of my brain, he’s living snugly there.

With me and you, well I come third- imaginary feature;
But as I struck, I wish you would have been a creature,
Not only mine but also better and more knowing,
I hate to see you rot your brain, to see where you are going.

Trauma bonded.

She’s in my thoughts,
She haunts me often-
a perfect version of myself,
i wish you didn’t see Her features,
every time we lay in bed.

but She’s so mighty and idyllic, the
Girl i so wish to befriend:
i hope She understands the issues,
lie not with me but him instead.

i’d love to tell Her to keep going, but
still i feel She stole from me,
a worthy man, some worthy time-
i hope love fills Her when he dreams.

i hope She doesn’t hate me for it,
my hands still itch when they should not,
but i: a child
was so unknowing,
to bear the weight is not to die.

he dragged the corps, and left it rotting-
while She glared over with a sigh,
but I, the child, prevail imploding,
lay facing down against the ground.

An insomniac’s confrontation with their least favoured pet.

Sleepy Brain Bugs,
Can’t you see,
I am tryna fucking z.

Melatonin does not work,
All I do is hear you lurk,
Lurking, tryna munch my brain,
Feel myself going insane.

Silly Brain Bugs go away,
As my conscience starts to sway.

As my eyes begin to close,
Yet again they start their prose.

Growing pains in the brain.

like a punch to the jaw, as a child,
i got a concussion that would last my whole adult life;
no parent, no guardian, no overprotective foreboding could prepare me, us, the brain
for the mental constraints we were yet to indulge in- making it our personality, as
tar textured, it sticks to us, holding firm

firm grasp over me, us;
overly comfortable with the omniscient presence convincing me, us,
that we would be more comfortable if the parasite stayed:
after all, we’ve been together so long,
who are we without it’s constraints on our brain?
we said our.

so we continue engaging with it,
a year, two pass,
a façade of recovery twice trying to shield the
bug, resting within my cocoon of thoughts.

Resin.

Tar textured, you stick to me:
Not for that, you’re attached, but
Rather your essence aligns along
My lips- spit, slicked and sunk-
Sunk on the cutis, for I am not
Without hurt when the resin
Pulls against my skin- not slipping
Slowly- but tugging violently along
Vigorous outlines of flesh and
Bone; for that we are more than
Flesh and bone but lovers alike.

You are my tar, and I am yours also-
Not metaphorically, you are my
Mental companion,
My winter solstice on a summer’s eve-
Detached from the realm of real-
With heaps and gardens of verisimilitude.
Our fields the same.

For you, there's not much I wouldn't do-
Except from crack and sniffing glue <3

I hate the way you wear my dresses,
Deject my issues and distresses,
You undermine the way I feel,
Then slice my wrists- it’s overkill,
You fund the rent of bugs inside,
You summon worms to come and hide-

Inside the noggin, I call mine.
To you being myself is a crime,
For I don’t share those tropes of her’s,
And I don’t share those tropes of yours,
A narcissist myself am not-
Those words of rot doth hurt the soft uncustomed brain of yours
But you pull faces when I cry-
No matter how much I would try-
You undermine the way I feel-
Those periled sighs and little wheeze.

the Rupi Kaur's ghost writer.

her and I are the same. thereafter you said ‘but
you’re not her’.
‘her and I are the same’- connected by thought and grain;
my brain
seeps down the drain. but
I’m not her.

i was a straight and he broke me-
i was a blem and he smoked me

I hate partitioning avec-vous,
Cutting myself away from you,
Dissecting old belongings shared, and memories
Of times you cared,
For my well-being- there were two:
Both saw me break away from you;

The scent of crisping doll flesh, iv’s into the senses now-
pouring drop, by drop- the familiar smell of plastic burning,
chemicals fermenting, paves the nose.
The smell spores, delicate mushroom hats bloom-
Rotting remnants of brain cells- your voice booming enough,
Boasting, like the smell burning- the sinuses inside out.
Your reprise recoils until all you speak becomes unbearable to me-
Unable to tolerate, its you who snaps on yourself twice over our pair.

Yet still, eyes red- spit slicked and sunk as if-
Penetrated by smoky tar residue. Combine the-
Two together- then suddenly the pair spurs each other
on- a never-ending Ferris wheel playing, catchup to death.

“Relentless optimism”- on tiles, signs and in my hands-
I bite down on the words, sink in the teeth-
Their flesh-ripping- bloody fibres threading as I pull back and chew-
Tough rubber, resin-like tar,
Gunks up the mouth as I chew-
Incomprehensible pain spreads, jaw hurting from the frantic gurning-
Flavourless gum pinching the mouth together as hot resin cools-
As both maxillaries tire it's stuck and rigid.

Did not think I’d write, but with two pallets in one,
Loose slips, stutters, crease right over my tongue,
Like a mother’s hand stroking the yet unfused bone,
Which covers the brain of her newly born son.

With two tongues, writing is better than talking,
No crunching of syllables, gurning of gravel to spit,
Or scrambled messages bulldozing out of the mouth at filthily incoherent speeds- more comforting, ‘I think-
Before I speak’, he’d tell me- so I thought
and thought until nothing came out anymore;

and thought blocked my airways- a death rattle from build-up- the tail of a snake- anxiously beating the air,
simply easier to weep or screech or scratch at the door or a cat-post,

because words are frustrating and scrambled and bleak,
so filthily difficult, complex to speak;
but actions they’re easy and brutish and cheap,
so easy to bash heads, rip out hair and weep.

The calf strays rarely from its mom,
Consuming surroundings mindlessly, ensuring not
A single thought rips through the neurones and rings violently in her ears- or rattles
About the walnut shell of her skull, where indecent thoughts hibernate- or falls from the throat in casually distanced discussions with mother about the weather- or what
Shoes she’ll be acquiring for the next season.

You see, she’s able to think that ahead-
With three calves under the belly, and a keep to maintain- shoes and the weather and escapist novels are her way of tucking the thoughts to bed- pragmatically, practically, in her own silent way-
Ploughing daily in work and in thought- is her way of ensuring that no cog in spins out of turn, if I had to guess.

And I guess because calves, they are selfish,
I don’t really know mother- the things that she likes or the flowers she sews or-
The shoes that she’d worn because calves.....