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The wild long battling stare of those eyes, the raspberry sweet sound, but as cold as ice.

The melting slow touch of those fingers through the curves of a heated core, the screams of the want, the madness so gore.

The parallel running lines of the neck with the fingertips, the lenient little peck, the mental precipitation of every little speck.

The right amount of assurance to have it when you want, where you want, so much, like the favorite cushions pinned to the bed as such.

The wicked little smile, the smirk of the Satan, the look, the touch, the last felt breath, the one left slight unshaken

Yearning the same, yet, and more in distress, lying right where you left the undone in a heated mess.

The Mirror Side! (7)

I am an addict, let me enlighten you on the same!

The beauty of my bedroom if I have to put it in one word it’s indispensable for me. As much as I do not appreciate it, it is one true addiction of mine. I have always had a hard time adjusting to new beds, setups, charging points, new lamps, room cooling temperature, side tables, etc and the realization hits me the hardest every time I get back home to my bedroom after a long break.

And that is more or less a month or so, but this time it was 6. Oh yeah, I am home after 6 long crazy months of being in a lock-down amidst this never-ending pandemic. Ah alas, my space, my one true love (or at least that’s what I said when I walked in).

I feel its all the more valuable to come back into your comfort bubble if you have been living in a complete culture shock. The excitement of learning something new wears out pretty quickly than you actually thought it would. The whole idea of ‘I like to go to new places and learn new things and meet new people’ is only nice when we it’s in holidays. In any other scenario of let say settling, it’s very frustrating and I speak for myself only.

It’s from going to something new every day to oh it’s the same as yesterday in a shorter span than batting an eyelid. One day you love the whole newness, the other day you wanna murder yourself, all part of the same game.

This is not your constant stimulus. You’ll instantly be hit with that and you will feel it the most once you are back home. Because this is your bubble, your space, you built this madness for yourself. Nobody was a part of your dark secrets here, the ones you lived for the first time. The first cigarette, the first sneak out, the first BYOB (bring your own boyfriend), the first book, the first medal, the first sleepover, the first fight, the first heartache, the oh so many more firsts. There are so many firsts in this bedroom, that before anyone could see you happy, sad, frustrated, or broken, this place lived it with you when it was happening.

I mean how could anything ever replace this in your head, in mine it most definitely cannot. I am addicted to this place, to my home, to my bedroom, so much so, that if I could I would never leave from here, I wouldn’t. I own every good and bad memory of this room and had it not been with me, I would not know where to go to look for peace.  This is my self-made safe haven, here I am my safe haven!

Though I get home how late, how late!

 So, I get home, ‘t will compensate.

 Better will be the ecstasy

 That they have done expecting me,

 When, night descending, dumb and dark,

 They hear my unexpected knock.

 Transporting must the moment be,

 Brewed from decades of agony!

-Emily Dickson

Ghosts In My Head!

That there is my mind if you knew how to decode it

There’d be a, million broken pieces, unfinished dialogues  

Stories, maybe also a few poetries, spiteful proses

And some idle verse of sombre pieces

From my unfinished past, ghosts in recess.

So, sit down, take a notepad, like this was your first dictation

Write down my ear-splitting screams, the atrocious seems
the subtle weeps and traumatized dreams

The run between your exhausting demands,

The few that felt like direful remands

I had some scribbled on your pillow, the words that bled

The ones that rang like a song in my head.

Are you writing, my love? Because I am not done yet

I am yet to talk about the dark shadows you haven’t met

They lurk inside, behind, above and below me

Screeching through the walls of my ear,

like loud roars, which if it were you, wouldn’t bear

Foolish as it may sound, it is real,

Like our long walks on the streets of the capital, something surreal
Calm down, as you repeat on every war cry of my head,

Ever felt it doesn’t reach the traumas of my bed?

I hear shrieks of my failed brave front,

Awaiting its freedom from this dark mental cunt  

A failure I’ll call, both, you and me,

In recognizing and holding on to who I used to be.


I dropped quick and easy, like a ball of yarn three decades ago
Your shadow has lingered on me since
Your syllables, your voice, like an old audio cassette on loop
Like my favourite soundtrack.
You are the flying, shining, metal hard armour
Wrapped in a heavenly flesh, that once was my abode.
I’ve never once have had a blank static stretch
Your tape reels have been all along in my frames.
I’ll run blindly towards you, rolling down steep slopes
To tell you something, everything, to unwind.
To who you are what, regardless,
You will always be the lamps of my street dark old town


I’m A Postcard!

I remember the first intimate battle of ours, the way you encroached each dark corner.
You ensured the deliberate scars across my silhouette,
Before I entirely surrendered my inhibiting dementia.
To date – you incessantly visit, revisit, the same old hollow tombs and castles of my flesh,
Hasn’t the anonymity of my egoistic calling saturated you enough, yet.
Haven’t the walls, those that have been charged on to, remind you of the massacres we avoided,
Saved so many the wrath that the unison would have bought.
Mad as a hatter, they don’t just say it,
Underneath this life long carpet would stay the mental Voldemorts.
The rear gear of these sweat and fret nights, the ones that I replay in my head
have overshadowed every possible ray of shine for my tomorrow,
Oh such a beautiful wasteland you’ve turned me into…
Worsened my soil to sow,
But turned me into a picture perfect postcard!