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Tera ek jahaan he jahan me tera nahi,

mera ek bhi jahaan nai jahan tu mera nahi.

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Every intellectual annihilation is bound to end in a pyrrhic victory; every intellectual colosseum is smeared with the ashes of innumerable Kalingan-esque pyres.

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My tendency to be insecure about my own intellect will wither what exists of it anyway. Why, this want…to be a God atop Olympus, worshipped without question, admired unequivocally? My blood runs cold and my eloquence fades at a mere hint of superiority. This is the opposite of what I remember, I used to drool at the prospect of learning. I used to be able to separate words and their orators like second nature. Now that gnaws at me. Something screams from the inside. Like a megalomaniac, a voice inside screams-

“you’re better”

“Rome wasn’t built in one day, but Rome was born on the day Romulus killed his demigod brother Remus and named the fucking city after himself”

“now that’s what we would do, isn’t it?”

It’s worse than vanity, vanity is built on proofs from the past, this side of me is built on fear and pain. It adrenaline, it’s shaky hands, it’s blurred vision. It’s not stability, it’s not humility, it’s not gratitude. Maybe I’ve spent too much time in an theatre of blind, surrounded by the applause of puppets trained to clap robotically after a play ends.

You used to be water. Flowing, dancing. Now you’re just a rock at the bottom of a lake, with moss for a face and salt for a brain. Get the fuck out, built anew. Flow again.

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Despair isn’t a bottomless pit… rather, a perfectly climbable ladder.

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I cut myself to see if I still drew blood,

I baptised with my blood to see if I was still god.

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बुझा जो रौज़न-ए-ज़िंदाँ तो दिल ये समझा है,

कि तेरी माँग सितारों से भर गई होगी।

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she tastes like lips

tangled in barbed wire,

like death would wait in a corner

to let her linger awhile.

she tastes like the northern lights

soaked in ecstasy,

like the thousand galaxies I’d burn just to taste her again.

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In psychoanalytic literature, a Madonna–whore complex, also called a Madonna–mistress complex, is the inability to maintain sexual arousal within a committed, loving relationship.

First identified by Sigmund Freud, under the rubric of psychic impotence,this psychological complex is said to develop in men who see women as either saintly Madonnas or debased prostitutes.

Men with this behavioral complex desire a sexual partner who has been degraded (the whore) while they cannot desire the respected partner (the Madonna).

Freud wrote: "Where such men love they have no desire and where they desire they cannot love."

her, a black halo.

I, a Madonna Whore.

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I look at the world and I can’t help but think, that maybe, God is just a single dad who doesn’t know how to braid his daughter’s hair.

Damn.did.you.try.but.damn.did.you.get.it. wrong.

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“The lodgers, one after the other, squeezed back into the doorway with the strange inner feeling of satisfaction which may be observed in the presence of a sudden accident, even in those nearest and dearest to the victim, from which no living man is exempt, even in spite of the sincerest sympathy and compassion”

~Fyodor Dostoyevsky

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Darling, dearest, dead.

Of all my violent needs; perhaps wanting more, was the most realistic-

Why does an infant whimper at being born, at its first human touch?

It wants more. Being human isn’t enough for a life so anew, what hope do I have to ever be satiated..?

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What is nothing but the hollowing existence of what you truly desire?

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how do I love myself?

do I pretend the dark crescents at the tips of my fingers don’t exist? like they are the way they are because of a pigment and not because I was made to hold fire when I was young?

do I not care for the way my shoulders droop? like I don’t try to shrug them when people walk past me?

the way my feet don’t always match steps when walking? like I don’t skip a few yards each side to make my walk seem normal?

or the way my hair doesn’t stay where I want it to? a few strands always mocking me for where I want them to be?

my teeth, my inbite that protrudes when I smile, like I haven’t consciously tried not to laugh around people?

my heart, which still skips a beat when it’s not supposed to? like I haven’t tried to kill it, more times than I’ve tried to listen to what it had to say?

my eyes, do I pretend they don’t turn the other way when I am afraid? like I haven’t tried to stare back a million times?

thunder thighs, protruding belly, flaky lips, an anxious mind? what I am supposed to pretend to love one more time, knowing I’d never fully be convinced of who I am?

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perhaps all life will now be, is finding out the depths of my depravity.

whom do I owe the biggest apology to and who owes me the biggest apology?

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My eulogy will be a blasphemous man’s bible

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I was craving something unholy so I drank the blood of a god

“but I said unholy, not blasphemous”

I always confuse those two

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I have blood on my teeth now, is this what the end tastes like? If it does, I'll embrace it. Let it burn my tongue, let it gush down from my mouth like all I ever existed for was spilling some blood on the ground.