Death of a Broken Muse

I tried really hard to make you my muse, but my words failed me. I tried to bite through the pain your 'love' instilled in me, but I failed. I tried to look past the jump scares in our uncoordinated horror story ; I failed. I tried to unburden some of our choice encounters to my loved ones, but my body betrayed me. Some know a quarter of it, some a half. But no one knows the entirety. My throat clogs up when I think of you. My brain shuts down when I want to recollect "us. " Maybe there was never an "us," just you. I dreamt about you the other day; I woke up with a start. I relived a night in your claws in an interlude of my nap. Do you remember how I used to flinch away from your touch? Drift away in between "our" intimacy? Cry out loud to spare me a speck of kindness? The number of No's and then the strangled Yes that was coaxed out of me? Do you remember me curling on my bed with a pain that almost killed me? Do you remember taking me then too? Do you remember how you failed me? Do you know what you did to me? Do you even remember your own spine?

Do you remember when you pushed me down and took me? Do you remember when I was bleeding and you still took me?? Do you remember when I tore and you still took me? Do you remember when I lost someone close to me and I turned to you for comfort, and still you took me? Do you remember the nights and days I was sick, still you took me? And after all that; Do you remember rolling over and passing out? Forcing me to face the demons you created in my head. 

Leave all that and a little more behind, what about the lies? What about THE FUCKING LIES? WHAT ABOUT THE BETRAYAL? WHAT ABOUT THE TEARS? WHAT ABOUT ALL THOSE?

I told you to not push me. I told you to not make me open my eyes and see you for what you are. I begged you to not take me for granted. I handed out chances like sand in the desert for you, just for you to disperse them in the wind. I told you to not do it, and you did. Did you even love me? Was love ever enough?

So I killed the you who couldn't even be my muse, and I wanted to kill myself for it. I hated the unscrupulous wench it made me. Was my love too loud for you? That it echoed and got lost in your walls? I told you to never hand out your confessions that fast. I did that because it was as hollow as your promises; the promises you made and made and made and never kept. The self-pity you reveled in. The victimized lamb. The dutiful deadbeat. The misunderstood manchild, and whatnot.

Do you know I used to harm myself to dissociate from the pain you caused me? Have you seen me choking on my own blood? Did you know I took blades, all pretty and shiny, my favorite ones, one too many times to unlearn the me you made? Do you know how deep... What is the use of ruminating on the broken musings of a dead muse?

I hope one day I can say them out loud without hurting you even. For what is the use of healing if this cycle of hurting never dies down?


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Your me

 Someone asked me why didn't it work out? If you were soo in love. I didn't have enough words to describe it. Because in the back of my head the thought that it didn't work out because I didn't let it work out haunted me. But we knew why it didn't.  Then I started the usual song and dance of how well it worked out. I remember love and what it was to be loved when I think of you. I remember my love for writing when I think of you. I remember falling in love with a language that I was soo familiar with in your love letters, poems and confessions to me. I remember reveling in the thrill of romance through the curve of your penmanship. I remember the thrum of my blood when your words used to jostle my brain cells with dopamine. I remember re-learning passion through your favourite topics. I remember you brimming with excitement seeing your favourite people.  I remember loving tea through the rim of your glasses, and then leaving it for occasions now because how dare it ...
Read more

In Memoriam

The incidence of suicides are quite high in Kerala these days. Kids, youngsters, adults, everyone and anyone. Before I used to belive that there will be that one ounce of life that would want you back in the tomorrows of your loved ones. No matter what, you can hold on to that hope and return to it. But as I am growing old, the rose tinted glasses are fading to nothingness. Now that I think about the people who are giving up on themselves, I understand them. I understand where there desperation is coming from. But try to hold on, because if you don't, no one else will. It's the harsh truth of life. We went wrong when we chased our happiness in the fleeting smiles of the ones around us. When you are content with the smiles of your kith and kin, sometimes you fail to notice the child in you who never found themselves on the receiving end of that kindness. Try to be kind to oneself first, because when death tries to dilapidate the tough but easy going persona you created, that kin...
Read more