Aflame-d

Nothing could have prepared me for what I had to do next. I ran into the woods and towards the soccer field, running uphill with only the vaguest sense of direction. In the dark, fallen branches and moss-covered rocks appeared. There was a fuliginous fog thick in the air giving an eerie feeling.

An omen of what was to come.

I tripped and fell repeatedly and worried but I have never felt so sure of doing something before, not ever since the accident. I ran. I ran like I had golden shoes.

Five minutes later, I was crouched behind the trees fifty feet from the soccer field. My heart thumped like a techno drum-beat.

The plan? Simple. Light and run.

It lit with a sizzle that reminded me of every July Fourth spent with her. I was mesmerised. The pooping started. The fireworks bangbangbang in sync with my heartbeat. When the firecrackers finished, I heard, “STOP OR I’LL CALL THE POLICE!”

I mentally cursed. I should have ran before the firecrackers ended. Regrettably, the distraction had failed. I doubled my speed, my heartbeat that of someone suffering from asphyxia. I avoided the brightly lit areas, moving zigzag, wishing that the overweight security guard would not catch up with me.

I finally reached the stairway. Taking two steps at a time, I traveled to the third floor science lab. As foreseen, the doors to the lab were locked. The fire extinguisher near the lab aided me in breaking in.

Upon entering, my nostrils were attacked by the fetid lab. I walked straight in, passing through the labyrinth of cabinets with bottles of chemicals to turn on the gas chamber.

I walked to a table bent down, took a Bunsen burner from the cabinet, connected it to the gas pipe and turned it on. The flames came alive and I was instantaneously hypnotised. I chortled and then came the waterworks.

The addiction began exactly a year ago today after I drove my best friend into a truck that had jackknifed. I was in the thousand -yard state of intoxication, we both were, but common sense had flew through the window when I entered the car turning me namby-pamby. She fell into a deep slumber to the highway’s monotonous lullaby while my right-side burnt.

For a year now, I have failed to comprehend my survival. I think of her every moment and see her in my dreams, the exact identical dream each night. Her weight falls dead on me, crushing my chest, stealing my breath, and she is cold and wet, like melting ice. Her head is split in half and a pink – gray sludge oozes from the fracture in her skull and drips down my face, and she reeks of formaldehyde and rotting meat.

Guilt, cold wrenching guilt had formed deep in my heart, thus the need for warmth.

Thus the need to finish the job.

I walked back to the cabinet full of chemical, picked bottles labelled with ethanol and splashed them around the lab. I got another bottle this time labelled methanol and watered myself with it. With a hand full of wooden splints and the Bunsen burner, the science lab is aflamed.

I laid on the table in the middle of the lab and waited for the fire to engulf me. Second thoughts began to leak into my head but I did not move an inch. As I watched the ceiling, I played back the accident, replaying how I killed someone and lost half myself in the span of seconds.

Footsteps and shouting resonated through the corridor as I had begun to lose consciousness but it was too late.

At least, I hoped I would have been dragged out to sea by the undertow before they arrived.

“Whether or not you believe in Fate comes down to one thing: who you blame when something goes wrong. Do you think it’s your fault – that if you’d tried better, or worked harder, it wouldn’t happen? Or do you just chalk it up to circumstance? I know people who’ll hear about the people who died, and will say it was God’s will. I know people who’ll say it was bad luck. And then there’s my personal favourite: They were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Then again, you could say the same thing about me, couldn’t you?”
– Nineteen Minutes, Jodi Picoult

Heartbreaks

She broke up with him today.

I’ve never seen her so distraught,
So vulnerable like ever before today.
For the very first time, her stubbornness had dissolved into water droplets.

It’s been said time and again
that love is a complicated thing.
There is a certain amount of courage, almost foolishness that makes you put your heart on your sleeves, each time.
Yet, almost like an addiction, I see them throw themselves at the risk.
Repeating the process that has now come to be normal with growing up – heartbreaks.

The thrill of a companion is what drives them most times.
I wish it wasn’t.
It’s a downhill fall if the solution to the hole within was to fill it with the sweet words of a companion.
For why would teeth be plucked out from excessive intake of sugar?

As ladies of a new generation,
I wish we wouldn’t be so vulnerable to societal norms.
I wish we would learn to see that self-worth is the best filling.
I wish we would learn to throw away the items society has thrown in our face to hide our flaws.
I wish we would learn to be comfortable in our own skins.
I wish we would learn to eat and dress for ourselves.
I wish we would learn to never be afraid to let out the warriors in us.
I wish we would learn to see how much more we could be,
if the strength came from within.

Named Hurricanes

In response to Anna Akhmatova’s ‘You Will Hear Thunder’


“It is poets and philosophers who tend to think clearly of death”
~Sherwin Nuland

I shall dance in the pouring rain
And my footsteps shall create sandstorms.
My spins and twirls more on point that tornados in
Glass bottles.
My movement: poetry that will swallow you deeper
Than the waves of tsunamis.
My name shall live longer than named hurricanes.

* A poem a little early than usual as I shall be participating in an MUN competition this Sunday.

Exposed

via Daily Prompt: Exposed

I have seen her fall on make up after their fights.
She uses it to cover up their rocky relationship.

She doesn’t do it well.

He speaks out for women’s right and compliments strong women but he likes her under his wing.
He likes her at home, where he knows she shall always be safe.
He doesn’t like her begging him for money but he constantly gives her the change.

She appreciates it and smiles brightly each time.
She complains of being naive but doesn’t do anything about it.
She wants to be free but she fears being exposed, vulnerable to a not so safe world.

At night, when she sleeps, she dreams of courage.

During the day, she prays for a better life for her children.

Pen VS Arrow

A timely piece with all the political and military tension all over the world. 

In response to Sidney Keyes’s “War Poet”

“War Poet” is a simple poem which I believe Sidney Keyes used to show that he did not fit in on the battle field and that it was against his decision to be there in the first place. I believe it is also his interpretation of what happens when War and Poetry mix together- the risk of insanity and thus his wasted potential. “Pen VS Arrow” plays with the two possible decisions Sidney could have made along with the difficulties of both decisions hence hoping to bring to light the difficulty of war.

All my life, my pen has been my protector.

I wasn’t one who knew how to really use anything else.

I never believed that anything could defend me better than words –which I used as armor.

So, imagine the confusion I was faced with when I found out some had used a pen to uproot the lives of others and forgone it as a protector.

Trust upon me was the decision to be like all men my age and dawn on courage for the sake of my country, the future of its people and ultimately peace.

Trust upon me was the fact that such a decision could lead to my death and hence the death of a man for a cause he did not wholeheartedly believe in or better still in which its solution, he did not wholeheartedly believe in.

Trust upon me was years of rehabilitation, the possibility of insanity and thus lost potential.

Yet on the other side,

Present was the decision to abandon my country when she and my people needed me most and the weight of the guilt.

Present was also the opportunity to grow as a writer but also the threat of insanity due to the guilt that would scratch my doors.

Will my pen help me see to the end of this problem?

Only the dead have seen the end of war.

~PLATO