"i was the hell that you needed, love..."

Once there was a girl. She made her words dance. Like Carroll’s Alice in the words wonderland. She wrote to know herself. She wrote to fall in love. She wrote because she fell in love. And she wrote because of all the little secrets, even the messy dirty ones.

The words spoke to her, their cadence and the silence between like a secret between her and them. They made love. An ardor that never felt wanting.

It’s so beautiful, just being alive, that I catch myself, tears wet on my face. Heartbreak is a luxury, single parents, cannot afford.

The whole time I kept thinking, “I can tide over this, lemme just write something … ‘am stolid enough by now…” But there weren’t words and so instead I noticed seams. Mine and everywhere else!

Now, imagine a frame by frame edit of breaking glass. Imagine a bullet gliding through, a blood less shot and then just a single red drop. Imagine.

I am the messenger and am the news. The prognosis is touch and go. Really, isn’t it always that. A brush with elegance, a brush with brutality.

Isn’t it always like that? We engrossed in the ordinariness of our beating hearts, our daily altercations and infractions and forget. We grow impatient at stoplights; we throw our hands in the air when someone claims our parking spot; maybe we yell fuck you, or whisper it beneath our breath.

When our kids dawdle we say, hurry up, won’t you? 

When we want to be close, we say can you just leave me alone?  

We are all fragile and failing and fallible bare foot. In a free-fall!

It’s like being in Stephanie Meyer novel or Vampire Diaries, only without the glamour and glory

Whatever I’ve become, whatever comes tomorrow, however fragmented the pieces look now, I know this… even today.  Am grateful!  

You know, when that bullet just dives through the glass.  It’s beautiful! Bilal Tanweer does the best job of describing the beauty this destruction is, really!

In the dark, past midnight, past 3 am, past memories, past the self-inflicted pain, past the promise to self; I hear the first bird chips; they feel like guiding stars.  

There once was a girl. She wrote. And, I want to tell her how much more she’ll have to write when her story isn’t solely hers, and there is everything to lose. When her heart isn’t her anymore, but is out of her body, pink in her kid’s flushed cheeks, or red hot in her lover’s careless words. 

So much more…

Copyright © Neerja Yadav

1 comment:

Margie said...

I have always loved 'your words'
They touch my heart and soul.