Dyspeptalk #21.

“The only thing we know for sure is that no matter how hard you try, our plans are going to fail one too many times.

It could be that striped tee you had imagined yourself wearing on your date, and she’d have looked up and she’d have said,

this looks good on you

, and you’d say,

I’m glad.

But that never happened.

The tee shirt was probably sold a day before you finally got all the money together to buy it, or you tried it on and it was one size too small.
And whether you left it on the floor of the trial room in disgust, or bought it out of a desperation only to realise you’ll never wear it after you reached home, your heart irreversibly broke a little in that moment.

And someday, it’ll happen to you again.

Maybe your relationship never worked out, and you remain standing there thinking of a proper reply to her saying

it’s not working out

, and in that moment there’s nothing else to be said really.
You could tell her you had planned to show her your bare hairy chest one day, place her hand on your skin and tell her

you didn’t know how it worked underneath but it hurt a bit every time she cried

.

You could tell her

you had planned to elope with her.

Or just wake up next to her one morning realizing you’ve never loved as you are doing this moment.

But now she’s standing in front of you expecting a reply and it’ll be

I hope you are happier now.

It’ll always be

I hope you are happier now.

The only thing we know for sure is that our plans are going to fail one too many times.

Even worse, when you’re lying there looking up at the ceiling wondering what went wrong,

you’ll realize you don’t have anything to wear to the date anymore.

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Art by Wasted Rita.

Dyspeptalk #20

Probably the worst thing after seeing a person dying, is seeing a person depressed.

They talk to me, and they try to make me feel better, but the weight that ties down my heart like a stone sinking ten miles below sea level, isn’t so easy to weave into words.

So they misunderstand me.

They give my darkness names.

Some call it ego.
Some call it denial.
Some call it vanity.

But the truth behind every drug addict curled up in a cardboard box under the abandoned bridge of West Harlem isn’t where they chose to escape, it’s why they chose to escape, why they had to.

Sometimes what others do seems really easy till you take matters into your own hands.

The first time I came back from college and saw my mother still struggling with an omelette that kept getting scrambled, I mocked her because I didn’t know how blistered the hands that poured egg yolk into the frying pan was.

Years later, sitting in a dark room at 4 in the morning, smelling of cigarettes and a fractured spirit because something I had worked my heart into had been rejected again, I got a text from a friend asking how to write a poem to impress his girlfriend.

At that moment I knew how hurt my mother must’ve felt that day, to be questioned on the one thing her blistered hand refused to do despite of her heart breaking all over it.

At that moment I knew, how blistered someone’s soul can be with the bleeding red gashes of rejections and failures, so long so that nothing comes out of it anymore.

I’m scared because I’ve been rejected so many times, I’m terrified of my heart that still holds hope.

I’m scared because the bottle in me has leaked from so many places, I’m terrified of looking into it and finding only a seeping last drop.

I’m scared because my friend never understood, my mother had felt really hurt that day.

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