Tag Archives: Prose

Please Tell Me


What is it about you? You take my words and turn them around. You fling them back at me with so much hate and anger. What did I ever do to you, I wonder? You take out the love in every action and make it a personal vendetta even in the most harmless of things. You turn my smile into a frown so easy I have forgotten what it feels like to be genuinely happy.

What is it about you? You have me wound so tight, I’m ready to snap at any moment. When you curl up in bed, does it feel like you’ve accomplished your day’s mission when my feelings are trampled over. Does it make you feel big when you make me flinch emotionally? Does it make you happy to make me turn to ice just so you can point out how much of a cold person i am?

What is it about you? Were you always this way or did life just serve you the wrong lemons along the way? Have you always been this much of an emotional terrorist? I open my mouth but you hear me wrong. I say what I feel, but you turn it upside down. Love what have you done with my tongue, I open my mouth but you steer me wrong.

You ask why you can’t elicit a reaction from me. You drive me over the edge looking for a reaction. You want me to yell, break things, fling my arms at you, anything. Thing is, that part of me is numb for now. You gotta know, I’m feeling low. I just don’t have the energy to transform that into a reaction. And you were never patient enough to look for a response. Knee-jerk reactions are all you understand. Before you get to my level, I’ll sip my coffee from a distance and watch you unravel at the seams.

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Posted by on March 31, 2017 in Uncategorized, Writing


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It’s a few minutes to midnight. I’ve been going through Tim Dowling’s writing for the best part of the night now. I’ve decided I like his writing style. He makes it look so easy and my life sounds so mundane and dull compared to his.

I’ve been shuffling my playlist looking for something to get me in the mood. I tried Chet Faker, that’s my go-to playlist when I want to be in the mood to write, then tried Tom Odell and am now listening to Saudade, which literally means Longing, as though I understand a word of Portuguese. The band pelts a great tune, the kind that allows you to get lost in the music and be nostalgic of a moment you are yet to live. The kind that makes you believe that life has a lot more to offer to you specifically. The kind that makes you wistful for things you don’t know.

And I am living a moment I have lived before, a moment I’m living and moments that are surreal to me. And I don’t want to leave this moment just yet.Am clinging to a memory that’s shattering me to pieces. Am hanging on to a pain that I needed to feel but numbed it before. Am walking a fine line between nostalgia and wanderlust.

.And I don’t want to leave this moment just yet. Am clinging to a memory that’s shattering me to pieces. Am hanging on to a pain that I needed to feel but numbed it before. Am walking a fine line between nostalgia and wanderlust.

I need to shrug off this dark cloud yet for some reason it’s comfortable walking these paths. Memory lane feels familiar. This boulevard of broken dreams is crowded but feels comfortable. There is a certain intimacy I have with my shattered dreams. The kind that is perverted yet puts a smile on your face. The kind of smile one gets from knowing that there’s nothing much to be done in some situations. The kind of smile a dying mother puts on for her child knowing fully well that she can’t do shit for them yet has to be strong to her last breathe because that’s what mothers do for their spawn, even the ungrateful and spiteful ones, they all deserve a mother’s love.

And you are a mean bastard when you are drunk. Hurling angry and hurtful words. And she is clinging to the baby. Because it’s the only beautiful thing that reminds her of you. And the baby is staring at her with scared eyes sucking it’s thumb. She is sobbing softly. Her tears falling on the baby’s face. He is screaming now. They are both driving you crazy. You bang the door loudly and drive off in rage.

Why doesn’t she get it? You lover her. You love them both dearly.

You don’t see the oncoming car. You are pounding your fists on the steering wheel cursing and mumbling under your breath. The blinding headlights jolt you out of your drunk stupor a bit too late and the only thing you think before the collision is that you don’t even know the color of her eyes after being together for  10 years. When was the last time you held her?

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Posted by on March 18, 2017 in Uncategorized, Writing


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Get off that fucking hijab!


Hold up a second darling. Don’t you think it’s about time to pause and reflect on the clutter? C’mon now, since when have you been a zealous bible-thumping bitch? Since when have you been a Muslim? I have nothing against this ardent religious freaks…I’m just concerned about you.

Last month you were a raging alcoholic. Tried every potent spirit you could lay your hands on. I remember how chapped your soft lips looked. And your hair was a mess too. C’mon honey, don’t take this road again.
Before that you were a football fanatic. Regardless of the fact that you just distinguish the teams by their jersey colors. Hold up, i have nothing against can teach an old dog new tricks, if your record is anything to go by.

But this is where i draw the line. I am fed up with you and your gutter. Can you stop being selfish for a while? We no longer have time for each other. And I’m using the word “we” royally. Since you always crawl back right into my arms once you are done swimming the gutters. I always listen and play the sounding board. Even on days when smashing a bottle on your thick skull looks like a pleasant idea.

Not this time though. I love you to bits honey, i swear i do. But you have to kick that jerk to the curb. You ought to get some time for you. Look, your life won’t stop just because someone isn’t sticking it in you. You actually can get some without having to change your fucking religion. Did you know that? Now you do.
I won’t watch you take the winding spiral back into the gutter for another man. Not this month. Clean up your act honey-pie.

I don’t know how you manage to attract the projects, but you always do. And God bless your soul for always thinking you can manage to make them put you first, an exercise in futility if your history is anything to go by.

Hold up a sec now. get off that fucking hi-jab and wait…do you even know how to read that shit?

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Posted by on March 13, 2015 in Uncategorized, Writing


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