We try to love what cannot be tamed. Wild horses,

vodka in shapely bottles, angry men and the things
they carry. We have done what we could. They say
anything they can to justify leaving. That we are
always sad. That we have let our hearts burn out
for petty things. That we are too fragile. That we are to selfless.

That we are too dependent.

They accuse us of being too sad to love. 

We’re not sure where we’ve learned
this, to want the things we know we can’t have. 

Chances are,
we are all the same, riding high on velvet blue nights.
Our weaknesses have names and phone numbers,
addresses we can send letters to,
describing our love and poetry. We are praying for sixteen again,
for clear skin and boys
who asked for permission before holding our hands. They say
they can find us by our cheekbones, that they are
small, miraculous sources of light. 

Sometimes we’re safe
but usually we’re not. 

The crime scene tape
should have been our first clue.

I don’t want to talk to him
but his voice is still the only thing that soothes me.
My body feels like a waiting room and I’ve already
tried pills, vodka and blades. Mascara piled on so thick
I can barely open my eyelids but the thing is,
I don’t want to see. You tried to love me once
and ended up calling me a damsel in distress.
I really miss you but I still haven’t
told my therapist. Sometimes it’s nice just to have
someone to talk to, you know? When I’m afraid
I sleep with the television on, volume high
so that the voices in my head won't bother me. Everything
is just static. I am okay. I. Am. Okay. I-am, okay.
I text people and tell them about all the fun I'm having but 

you're the first person I wanna talk to when I get a paper cut.
I sometimes compare my body to a junkyard
and I find bits of scrap metal beneath my bed
from people who break their promises. Maybe
love ruins you a little bit. Maybe we don’t care.
We are so young to hate everything so much.
We can recite the periodic table from memory
but still can’t quite believe it when they say
that they love us, too.

Smile

Smile

like you have no

secrets

like you’ve

never been
left
never been
hurt
like the world
doesn't owe you a
single
wretched
thing.

Even from far away

you could see it

they were drunk

but not from any type of beverage.

they were drunk off each other

the way they laughed

the way they kept sneaking glances

they way they curled into each other

with a nervousness behind

subtle excitement

even from far away

you could see it

they found each other

utterly intoxicating

It's not that I dont love, It's that I do...

"it’s not that i don’t love you.
it’s the sound i heard when i was 9 and my mom slammed the front door so hard behind her i swear to god it shook the whole house. for the rest of the years, i watched my father break his teeth on vodka bottles. i think he stopped breathing when she left. i think part of him died. i think she took his heart with her when she walked out. his chest is empty, just a shattered mess or cracked ribs and depression pills.
it’s not that i don’t love you. it’s all the blood in the sink.
it’s the night that my dad spent 12 hours in the emergency room waiting to see if i was going to be okay, after the boy i loved, didn’t love me anymore. it’s the crying, and the fluorescent lights, and white sneakers and pale faces and shaky breaths and blood. so much blood.
it’s not that i don’t love you. it’s the time that i had to stay up for two days straight with my best friend while she cried and shrieked and threw up on my bedroom floor because her boyfriend fucked his ex. i swear to god she still has tear streaks stained onto her cheeks.
i think when you love someone, it never really goes away. it’s not that i don’t love you. it’s the six weeks we had a substitute in english because our teacher was getting divorced and couldn’t handle getting out of bed. when she came back she was smiling. but her hands shook so hard when she held her coffee, you could see that something was broken inside. and sometimes when things break, you can’t fix them. nothing ever goes back to how it was. i got an a in english that year. i think her head was always spinning too hard to read any essays.
it’s not that i don’t love you.
it’s that i do."

Have you?

Have you ever felt

A compelling urge
To hug somebody?
To just wrap your arms around them
And never let go?
You just want to drop everything
And hug that person,
Touch them,
Embrace them.
You just want to be near them.
Forever.
No talking.
Just hugging.
Because you seem to say more,
Have deeper discussions,
When you’re in each other’s arms
Then when conversing aloud.
That’s the kind of bond
I want to have with someone
Some day.
Because the simplest of things
Speak louder
Than any words
Ever will.

Self Harm #1

Some call it crazy
Some say it's sick
But I think it's freedom
The pain is fierce but quick
Some say that it's a sin
Just a little too risqué
But it helps release the pain
That I go through every day
The blade is sharp and cold
As it runs across my skin
Leaving me to ponder
How deep I cut in
The chill running  down my spine
Makes me feel at ease
I no longer feel like a coward
Fucking up with every breath I breathe
But some days I want to stop
Feeling like everything's wrong
Trying to let go of the blade
Sometimes I can but not for long
It;s like I'm addicted to the pain
The feeling taking refuge in my veins
Leaving me feeling confused and alone
Wiping at the tears that seem to be stained
Burned into my skin forever
Becoming a part that I cannot escape
Sometimes I just want to hurt all over
To scream at the top of my lungs 'til they break
I want to escape from my memories
They're taking over me
Why can't I just rest?
Why can't they let me be?
 
I just want to be free.

 ~ Just another old one ~ :)

FYI : I used to self harm, but now I'm clean since 1 year :) yay!! :) 

P.S. I will be posting a lot poems and posts based on self harm and depression. Stay tuned to check them :) Also don't forget to share and subscribe to by blog. 

Thanks! I hope you have a great day :) or well, night :p

P.S.S. If anyone of you ever want to talk regarding self harm or depression, I'm always here :) Feel free to contact me at iammissanonymous101@gmail.com , I will always reply :) 

Take Care

Be Strong

Much Love & XOXO

Dia :)

In life

In life we can not choose our beginning,
nor can we choose our end.
Our purpose is to make sure everything in between
is absolutely beautiful.
Something we are proud to say "that was my life
and I lived every single moment of it."

A Thief

‘I write’, I proclaim, arrogantly,
And proudly, because I create
And I mold words of my own
But under the arrogance and
The pride, and the facades
Lies a simple fear, one so small
That it should be buried under
The words I can spill out into
Patterns that please, and read
Like the insides of your head
But still it gnaws, and still stings
Because I’m scared of realisations
Dawning of the fact that I steal words
And expressions and feelings too and
Make them my own. The only problem
Here is that I steal from someone who
Can’t ever get them back because
She’s simply stealing from herself.

A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Likes

Most women are more sensitive about their looks than their feelings. Criticize how she looks and you risk hurting her. And how do you measure her sensitivity? It’s simple, just try clicking her pic. Slowly take out your camera, aim and wait for the miraculous transformation. 

Watch her eyes turn into pellucid pools of kindness, prepare to get blinded by her dazzling smile. But not before she flips her hair, turns her face 45 degrees north (her best angle), pinches her cheeks and smiles her mysterious smile. The one that makes her look like Monalisa.

Even better than Monalisa

You see, she wants the world to see what she sees in the mirror.

Candid clicks are a big no and you can’t get away with just one shot. You are expected to click her again and again from different angles. It’s not because she doesn’t trust you. Experience and many ugly mugshots have taught her that you and your camera take time to warm up to her loveliness. So, she is willing to say cheese 17 times, just for the sake of a priceless capture. The one she can proudly show to her grandkids, when she gets old and wrinkled. Then she will grandly inspect all the shots you took and make you promise to delete the unflattering ones. If you don’t, you risk her wrath. If you upload it on Facebook, you risk getting killed. 

 

This is a strict no-no 

We women have a secret pact – thou shalt not tag/upload any ugly shots of ours. The moment a friend takes out her mobile and aims, we exchange that secret look. “You will make me look the diva that I really am”. Photos that inadvertently capture Christmas indulgences spilling out of our jeans or make us look like a hungry hippopotamus, are meant live happily ever after in the recycle bin.

Since most photos are clicked for the sake of Facebook, we make sure each one of us is informed once they have been uploaded. And then we wait for the comments to follow. Look aghast when only 15 friends like it. Pretend to blush when someone gushes about how we look.

In my distorted opinion, we women spend 33.3% of their lives complimenting each other about our looks. 

One look at a new profile pic on a social networking site and you’ll know what I’m talking about. Out of the 55 comments she gets, 49 will be from her girlfriends – Ooo, you gorgeous thing! Again there’s a secret pact. In a parallel universe it’s called reciprocity. You praise me and I will praise you back – get it? 

I blame social networking sites. Before Facebook, we’d quietly click a few dozen pics of us frolicking in Gulmarg, stick them inside an album with a floral cover, wait for relatives to come over and pounce on them. They’d leaf through the albums, sip Rooh Afza and make a few appreciative noises. That was it. To be called beautiful, we had to solely rely on the free services provided by roadside Romeos. Of course, verbally challenged Kamal Kumar could only express his appreciation by whistling. And that was perfectly okay!

And now thanks to our 567 online friends, who spend all their waking hours waiting to like you and your pics, how can you not believe that you are God’s gift to mankind?

Men seem to be under the impression that we dress up for them. Let me roll on the floor laughing before I shout – you are so wrong! Nope, we dress up for other femmes. Only a woman is capable of noticing the finer nuances of our appearance – the all new plum shade of lipstick, the perfectly tailored trouser that sits so flatteringly on our bum, the brand new clunky watch! And it takes us exactly 10 seconds before we furnish this appraisal. Now turn towards your man and all he will be able to muster is – looking nice, babe! We try our best not look affronted and smile painfully. Yes, it hurts to be called nice. It hurts more if someone calls you cute and it hurts the most when someone has the audacity to suggest – Erm! You look better in your photographs.

No one wants to be caught like that 

Try saying that and you will be hurled out like yesterday’s chapatis.

It’s because all of us would like to believe, that we are prettier and slimmer than our pics. But if you want to risk lifelong affection from us, try looking for our inner beauty. We are suckers for men who appreciate us for the person we are.