Blood on a page

Over the years, I stripped the collective ‘we’ that’s love, and replaced it with an egotistical, selfish, stupid, ‘I’, and if words could kill, I’ve spewed syllables like knives, cutting your core, and breaking you time and again. And then with a heart coated with guilt like rust, slowly corroding, eating me alive, I’ve returned to you, begging for forgiveness. And bowing to that shrine of naïvety with its pseudo-deity who false-promises a new rain and petrichor, I’ve retreated to an earlier us, with inside jokes, thinking you’ll reciprocate, and you have, despite the man I am. But I’ve forgotten that you’re an imperfect, broken human too, only finite, trying extremely hard at being selfless, and somehow succeeding though your bones turn brittle, and the voices in your head want to plunge you into Hades; abandon all hopes of Abraham’s Bosom and peace altogether. I’ve sucked spirit out of you, changing things before train-wrecking what we have time and again. And my agony’s guilt, but your sorrow is much deeper, much more profound, with a crumbling kneel to a god who has cast us away, bottled up our ashen essences in urns of wrath that he’ll smash when he feels like it. And I search myself now, dig through my core (or what’s left of it) asking myself how I could be so fucking heartless, thinking that the planets, stars and the entire universe revolves around me. They insanity is a pattern on repeat, a tiring vicious circle that leaves you less than a person, and with each crash, when this home that’s only a mirage – a dream of blues, beiges, reds, greens, oranges and whites slowly reveals its true monochromatic dark choke, you want repentance like Esau did, but you’re denied it, and hence change splits down the middle like something tangible, and you’re guilty, drinking your life away, popping pills and relying on fake moksha. You try and break, try and break, try and break, before you try and fade. And so, here I am at last, breaking this pattern with all force of will, and the only way is letting you go, and it’s sad and pitiful and that I’ve made you want me gone. But before I go, I’m kissing you on the cheek, without tears because I stopped crying a long time ago, while I kept winding and winding around this pillar of delusion. I’m looking you in the eye, holding you, without tears, hoping your sobs will stir something within and make me explode, and tell you, “I wish you well, and you mean the fucking world to me.”

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2019)

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