air of arrogance you confuse my perception into wayward thoughts
try to be humble by distilling the ego oh, what a struggle
but I’ll have you yet when I’m older and wiser in better control
.
3in1 haiku #281
.
Someone needs to explain ‘love’ to me,
Or I’ll spend eternity
rummaging through books
trying to decipher what I’m experiencing.
…….Please SOMEONE🥺🥺🥺
O Rotting Sun Episode 1 Fountain Wonder Woman VS. Fausta
A series of projective verse and essay fragments interrogating images I saw in childhood.
Found a dead brown moth on the kitchen counter; it was the first dead thing I’d seen in four weeks and two days. Blanca walked in just then, her tray empty, her shirt soaked in sweat. I stood in front of the moth so that she wouldn’t see it.
“They’re clamouring for meat,” Blanca said. “Where’s the chicken? I think they’ll start eating each other if we don’t bring the chicken out already.”
I pointed at the large plate with the domed cover on it.
“You’re not coming? Come on!” Blanca picked up the plate, but waited for my answer.
Forcing myself to look away from the moth, I struggled to smile. “Yeah, I’ll be right there.”
She’d clearly caught my haphazard smile, but she wouldn’t press. We weren’t that close yet. I watched her dust-brown hair hang behind her, held only by a hippie hairband she’d found in the attic while sorting out Joel’s belongings.
Then, I turned back to the moth, eyes closed. For a few moments, I wished that the moth was alive. Better still, I wished that it wasn’t there at all.
The dead moth’s wings bristled a little, the breeze from the window threatening to blow the creature off of the counter.
It deserved better. It deserved a funeral. A proper one, with its body intact. There may not be family to mourn for it, but—
“What’s taking you so long? Come on, already!” Blanca made a puzzled frown, and she bent through the kitchen door. I carefully held the moth by its wings and placed it into a palm. Blanca stepped closer to see what it was, and when she saw, she looked at me with sympathetic brows.
“Do you want to keep it in a collection?” Blanca asked. “Joel loved moths.”
“His favourites were the once with transparent wings.” I stroked the moth’s wing with a thumb. “Dark frames around the edges of the wings, and then transparent on the inside.”
“Hey,” Blanca touched my shoulder. “They’re waiting out there. Waiting for you. Are you coming?”
The moths eyes reflected one entire half of the room we were in. Its legs lay still.
“I want to give it a funeral.” I raised the palm to show that I meant the moth.
“Right now?”
“Yes.”
“But everyone’s waiting—” Blanca began, and then stopped herself. “This is about Joel, isn’t it?”
I tried to move past her, but Blanca blocked the door now, going so far as to hold a hand up onto the frame. She looked mad and determined at once, and I could never tell what she was mad and determined about.
“Come on, it won’t take long.” I struggled to smile again, and I don’t know why I bothered.
“Okay,” she said, and then she repeated the words.
Rafael appeared behind Blanca, his lips slick with barbecue sauce. He was younger than the both of us, but taller than us both.
“I came to check on you guys.” He grinned. “What’re you hiding in here?”
“A dead moth,” Blanca replied, whirling around. “Want a taste?”
Rafael made a confused face and sidled off to the restroom.
“Come on,” Blanca said, touching my free ahnd. “Let’s go put this boy to rest.”
YOU GET IN TOUCH long after you return from the city with a river.
We agree to meet in a cafe near your new apartment.
‘So, how are,’
'How have you,’
We speak at the same time. Laughter fills the air. Yet it feels incomplete. Your voice has changed; a bit harder. But your laughter, it’s still the same. You always had an unusual laugh, four distinct beats and then it was over.
We talk. I tell you about my job, about my third novel. I explain how I eventually found my style and tone; you say you are happy for me. And I don’t know how to respond to it, of course.
You tell me about your life, you say your brother has started getting back from his illness. I tell you something about Indian gooseberries. You say you’ve finished your law degree, and that you will be working as a trainee from the following month.
And in some way, this all feels theatrical, nearly rehearsed. Once – I knew everything about you.
When I tell you about my health, your expression is filled with concern, and I don’t know why it makes me so happy. You laugh as we talk about our old days, about how stubborn I once was. You are still smiling at me, your face bright with laughter. And, somehow, I find myself standing up against a reality I thought doesn’t exist anymore, and which is, I am still in love with you.
Deep down I always knew this moment would come, even though I never once let myself to consciously think about it, to deduce it in any way. And now that it has arrived, I will do something. I will tell you that I still love you.
We are sitting next to the window. ‘Lookout,’ you say. There is a group of birds. They are soaring through the clouds, gliding on the wind, and soon, they raced away from us.
The room is plunged in golden light. You are still looking out of the window.
And somehow, I think, the way the birds did, you too, have left me behind as well. And I feel you believe even if we get another chance it won’t work out, even if we get another hope, another wish, another possibility. I feel you believe I don’t love you for the time being. Soon, somehow, I will, I must, tell you you are wrong.
Arshad Shaikh || A Cigarette Container #4
All those things you’d die to say,
If only life had given you another day.
All of those ideas, black to grey;
Clouds of smoke dispersed in air again.
And I realised,
That all I thought I knew,
Was idealism at its best.
I realised,
That you already gave away your weakness,
Seemingly in jest.
You know I called it right,
That night.
But I know,
That you don’t like it.
But I,
I tried,
And you did not;
You didn’t even try to fight it.
- Anti | @the-outsider-girl
Middle child, smaller issues? Less important? You’ve got to figure.
You say she’s harmless but
she’s most harmful to herself
You think she’s a dreamer but
she tasted bitterness.
And next thing you know
she soars lifted up with courage
and confidence. Knowing
that only leaving her nest was a must
to find her way
to once stolen grace.
My mother comes in at 9 am, her voice laced with “why aren’t you up yet?” I simply blink, watching her walk away as I pull last night’s memories from my sheets, from my twisted blankets, from my disgruntled pillow.
3:40 am and we finally said goodnight. 3:40 am and we finally ended the call before the horrible reception at either of our homes could do it for us. 3:40 am and you told me you loved me with all your heart, would love me no matter my secrets. 3:40 am and I told you I loved you with all my being. 3:40 am and I whispered soundlessly that I not only love you, but I’m in love with you. A secret that would matter, that you could not handle. A secret that almost fell from your own lips last night, one that you ran away from faster than you ran up to. You knew, you said it, then you left it, completely changed the subject, recast your words, formed a new sword, one with a much lighter blow, much shorter range.
Do you know that I love you? Do you fear that knowledge as much as I do?
Then again, if you suspected that’s what I was going to say, why did you push so hard for me to open up? All the same, why did you abort at the last second? If you knew that’s what I was going to say, why did you ring the bell only to run and hide in the neighbor’s bushes?
Last night I slipped up, I told you I wrote the occasional poem about you-a lie as obvious as the blush on my cheeks, a blush that you described so accurately that I briefly wondered if you were in fact outside my window and not tucked into your own bed miles away. The truth is, I write many poems about you. The truth is, I write all my poems about you. Of those poems, you begged to hear one, in the effort of knowing your best friend further (your words, not mine).
I think you may be the only person in the world who could have love poems read to you, by the lover themself, and not realize how the poet feels about you.
Dear Babar,
You look well loved if not a bit forlorn. I guess it was time for your friend to let you go. Not everyone is meant to stay in our lives forever. I can only hope that you’re happy and peaceful in your next life and adventure. Growing can be painful, but it’s still very beautiful. I wish we could go together— the world can be very dark and cruel, but there is also incredible kindness if you are willing to be brave and stand alone and unarmed in a sea of monsters.
With love,
Laila
It’s easier to undress my body with your eyes,
But could you instead undress my mind?.
Could you unravel all it’s complexities?
And peel away any insecurities.
Stroke the darkness that no ones sees
Caress intelligence hidden in modesty.
Kiss the parts riddled with sorrow and hurt
Unbutton the defences like a crisp white shirt.
Embrace the parts that feel emotions so deep
Undress my mind and my body you may keep.
-JF-
I was doing my best
to wade through the anxiety
as it rose above my shoulders
and straight up my neck;
threatening to sink me
at the first sign of a struggle.
- G.L. Angelone
lost passion
This burning passion in my heart is now an extinguish fire of dreams, flames stopped burning and dead. My passion for love has vanished into thin air. No traces, no marks, nothing. Those were killed, dropped and destroyed. A lost passion in man’s heart.
Cómo demostrarle al mundo que me estoy agotando, que su sociedad se ha vuelto una basura, que la alegria desvanece en cuestión de segundos. Cómo le explico que ya no soy la misma,que me estoy perdiendo mientras me consume la basura y la tristeza, cómo puedo encontrar la paz que de pequeña quería ¿cómo?.
As fingertips touch the piano’s keys, creating melody out of his fermented heart. Whispering words from a dusty box filled with intensified grief. His heart created an image of a lady with its floral dress playing violin in accompaniment to his music. It was surreal that he kept it up until the sun kisses its horizon. An illusion made out of longing for his late wife yet, for him, it was enough to end the day. He has been spending his days like this—getting therapy through music.
Key of a moribund heart.
