Intimacy is still possible,
with people who hate one another,
this often happens,
when you stare in the mirror long enough,
what’s different then,
in being enthralled and appalled at once,
reconciling and irreconcilable,
in a union of secret eloping with your inner most bits.
Maybe I’m too romantically inclined.
Is it too much to be asked,
to be ruined in mind,
wretchedly unfixed in state,
mad with inability,
scathing walls for a scent of the past.
Ah what a little neuroticism does for the soul.
If you can’t at all be haunted by something,
I fail to see how you could pique my interest.
It’s not that I want to heal you either,
but I do want my own misery to be reciprocated.
That kind of companionship,
the guarded chastity inspite of the allure,
wets the palate with prose.
Judge me as much as you want,
just don’t let me anticipate,
leave me to my anxiety,
a still lake,
cast not a stone with your glaring eyes,
it’s the ripple before it reaches me,
Quell your souls with this beautiful piece.
It’s easy to remain unperturbed,
when you’re a far worse critic of yourself,
than they could ever be.
Amongst all the noise,
and scum scattered about,
I’m the fighting Temeraire,
carving up the sea.
The most noble aspiration, is to serve.
You do realise, I’m at my most selfless,
when I am alone,
there, my servitude is exemplary.
I’m untouchable in my outward expression,
insofar you allow me to cave inside,
I’ll repay humanity what I owe it,
left to my cocoon,
watch me bloom,
watch me soon,
I’ll come with an array of colour and magnificent flutter,
please allow me the room.
It comes in throes,
it reaps before it sows,
irrespective of season,
uncaring for reason,
pulling at the clutches of your existence,
it reminds you,
loneliness is all you know.
try your hand at social contracts,
and the social ever contracts,
until the squeeze makes you feel,
like you don’t feel at all.
I hate myself,
but I don’t tell that to the world,
not especially in the way I walk and conduct myself.
There has to be a level of appreciation you owe,
gratitude you display,
whether you direct it to God,
or are tangling with notion of direction,
you aren’t worthy of pity,
the world owes you nothing,
this battle with self hate is there,
as a constant reminder,
call it a dangling carrot,
to aim for better.
Just because you arrange your indignation in rows,
just because you can be more broken than everyone around you,
be a little more hateful of the things you can control instead,
things inside you,
like the burning ball in your throat,
that you can’t contain,
the sweat in your palms that clenches your fists,
the vile between your teeth that seethes,
and how far you extend your palm,
let all that rage and all that hurt,
force you to find fault in yourself,
and from it,
learn to soothe and embalm.