A 🐆ya

liar

[poetrybyarya]

little polka dots crawl around my face

a little ladybug from my past climbs into the window

“are you happy now?” she asks me,,

I tell her, I’m not not happy.

[poetrybyarya]

Can’t find love.

Can’t get a job.

Can’t stay happy.

Life of a normal girl.

[poetrybyarya]

I don’t recognise myself anymore. I used to laugh and giggle and scream every moment of the day, and I used to hug my friends and kiss their cheeks. I used to wear beautiful dresses and prance around town with a spirit and a shine in my eyes.

What is left of me? A carcass of who I used to be, with no love to give anyone else. I’m empty, and I don’t have anything, nor do I get anything.

[poetrybyarya]

the world is ending

and all i want

is to be with you

[poetrybyarya]

Sometimes you have to be a selfish woman to get what you want. Get those dreams out of your notes app. ~

[poetrybyarya]

I rest my head on your scruffy pillow. You pull away. Your space is always more dear to you. “My scalp is a little itchy. It’s probably from all the witchcraft.”

I giggle and take your face into my hands. I’ll love you forever, even if you pull away. Your eyes say you love me.

[poetrybyarya]

Sometimes you have to be a selfish woman to get what you want. Get those dreams out of your notes app. ~

[poetrybyarya]

There is a crate of oranges on my side table, but no one to peel them for me.

[poetrybyarya]

I wish I could run away from myself. I don’t know who I am anymore, and you know, what the worst thing is? I don’t even wish to know myself anymore.

[bebx]

[poetrybyarya]

You sit inside my heart like you own it.

[poetrybyarya]

At the repair shop, among grease stains, stray cows, and a half-broken plastic chair, I felt embarrassingly adored.

His car’s tyre got punctured, and we instinctively pulled over at a roadside puncture shop. I got out of the car with two ice cream cones in my hand, chocolate dripping all over my jeans.

The sidewalk was dust-coated, the garbage practically married to the ground. It was almost comforting in a cinematic sort of way.

He asked me to sit on the chair till he came back. He said that, according to him, he had to keep an eye on the workers so they would do the job properly. I had never seen a man be so manly before this.

The chair’s backrest was broken. I still wonder what happened to it. He pulled up in a few seconds with a bright orange chair, which was in much better condition. He grabbed my hand and made me sit on it while he took the half-dilapidated brown chair for himself.

It was an evening more intimate than any fancy restaurant date could ever be. I wouldn’t have chosen any other version of it.

A huge grin plastered across his face, he said, “Now you have done everything with me.”

[poetrybyarya]

I feel less and less like a daughter these days. All of my thoughts are centred around baking (sugar free, gluten free, dairy free) desserts for myself.

I dream of a baby (that’s mine), and I wake up without it nestled between my hands. My stomach churns with a loss I have never experienced.

There’s a grief inside me that makes me thick with sorrow, a raspberry yogurt with no sugar.

Hollowed out. Swelled up. Revealed.

Why do I grieve for a loss that hasn’t happened?

[poetrybyarya]

My heart twists and turns because I love you… and it is not a calm type of love. It is all-consuming, parched, and itching spice at the back of my throat kind of love, but don’t get me wrong, it is not painful.

It is the kind of love that makes you feel alive and never makes you question your choices or your sanity, the kind of love that presses against you like ice cubes on a hot summery night.

It is the kind of love that I want.

[poetrybyarya]

you are chaos and ruin and something dangerously close to home

[poetrybyarya]

I carried my mother’s photo in my pencil pouch when I was in kindergarten.

I would take it out during our painting classes or during the ABCs, and stare at it with teary eyes.

Once the teacher asked me “What are you staring at?”,

I told her it is my mom’s photo.

I lived with my mother at home.

Nothing was wrong.

I think I have always been the one to love like that, too much, too eagerly, a yearning that never dies down.

[poetrybyarya]

A love letter to a city that never loved me back:

Your betel-stained footpaths and smog-filled lanes keep me away from you. They tell me you are not for me, that you are made from ruins, and you love everyone like the wires tangled in your eyes.

But my heart is as stubborn as yours.

You are for me. You are me.

The rush, the relentlessness, the crumbling sweat from your walls after a survival only you know about, the noise, the spice, the taste only you can bring out.

Wherever I go, I think of you. How would it be if I were with you?

I know someday you will call me, and when you do, it will just be the two of us. A courtyard full of our own dreams.