He is the warm jacket on a cold winter night walk. He is the mindless bantering. He is the bizarre video games, the ruthless murder of zombies in Call of Duty. He is the annoying interruptions right at the climax of a really good book. He is the empty pantry and countless cups lying around the house. He is the arguments at four am about existence of dragons. He is the same t-shirt for a week. He is the awful guitar notes and off-tune bathroom singing. He is the frustrated math problems and the intelligent scientific queries. He is the laughter when everything seems to be falling apart. He is the reason you know everything about Manchester United. He is the constant reminder to breathe easy. He is also the push to work harder. He is the chalked line in the car dividing the backseat into your area and my area. He is the coffee sessions and philosophical thoughts voiced at one am. He is the never ending Scrabble games. He is road trips spent playing “I Spy.” He is the lame knock-knock jokes. He is the childhood spent playing street Cricket. He is the first concert. He is the angry games of ‘Ludo.’ He is the Whataburger runs at two am. He is the best friend I could ever ask for. He is the brother I am too lucky to have.

Master, you have five minutes of order left. How would you like to spend the three hundred seconds before chaos? What does it mean to have a few breaths until the entire human existence screams your name? I want to know in exact words what it feels like to be you at this moment. Is it how an Oscar nominee feels in the seconds between the envelope is opened and the winner of the award is announced? Or is it the feeling you get right before you die when your entire life flashes in front of you? What is the burden of those seconds? Was Einstein correct in saying that all time is relative? Do these two hundred and fifty seconds bear the weight of seventy-five years of your minds work? Or are they simple the distance between uncooked corn and popcorn? Because if these are the most important seconds of your life then they shouldn't be called something so ordinary. You can change the entire fate of the world in a few seconds and you can warm up tea in a few seconds. How could two things with such different magnitude be measured on the same Richter Scale? Would you compare the speed of the clouds with the viscosity of a flowing river? Both are made of water. Where do you draw the line? Who gets to draw the line? Can I decide what I want to compare? Because if I could, I would compare the depth of these two hundred seconds left to the amount of comfort I feel in my mother's arms. But even then, I have a fair inkling that the latter would win. 

Missing Pieces

I like how when I click to open my Tumblr, it says "Open Missing Pieces."

Like it's all up to me and I am just not trying hard enough. It's nice knowing that I have the power to know myself. To count how many breaths I want to take and take one less just to prove my control. 

You know all the wisdom quotes about knowing yourself being the greatest power? Fuck, it is. It bothers me at times that I can't control the amount of blood that flows through my veins. I can't get up and decide, I feel like 4 pints today. I am less giving, I need my existence to scream the fact.

Do you remember the stupid status thing going around on Facebook a while back? The tbh one? I used to like those statuses. People always told me that I was sweet, nice, kind, etc. And I used to read those and think, how sad is it that so many people know of me but not me. Because I am anything but. I have always been anything but those things. I am filled with bitterness so extreme that sometimes my thoughts shock my core. I live on this awful principle that the world has been unfair to me. I lost my parents fairly young. People keep telling me I have put up with that fairly well. What they don't know is the hate inside me. 

In eleventh grade, my English teacher told me my writing was very raw. It's one of the many reasons I have a lot of respect for her. She hadn't known me for more than a week then. She had just read an essay I wrote. An essay that was sort of fiction. And she had summed up my entire personality in one word based on that. 

I am raw. So raw that if you were to slide your palm over my heart, you'd find thorns of a cactus fluffy. I'm the kind of raw that makes your throat bid your entire life for one drop of water. And when you get that drop? It feels like you're walking on broken glass. It hurts too damned much. 

I am missing way too many pieces of my soul. The reason I would be kind to you is not because it's the right thing to do. It's not because I want a heaven. And it's not because of some sense of morality. I am kind to you because I can't afford you looking at my missing pieces. So if I am nice to you, know this well, I am superficial to you. Because believe me when I say, I am a monster.

All these people in this town are liars. Did you know you could lie with your eyes? If a lie needed words, then the mute would be saints. But the mute here are the loudest liars. They know how to speak lies with their eyes and fingers and every other part of their body better than others. They speak it better than others. Their entire body screams of my sins. Every time they look at me, I take a step closer. I am walking towards believing them. Save me before I lose myself. I believe my feet have grown brains. 

Every time I think of you, my mind starts reeling. My blood starts to waltz when I didn't even know how to dance. My limbs feel like a nebula, they lose all mass when they hear your name. I want to explain my condition to the people around me. I want to tell everyone that I am not insane. That the reason I lose my words when asked about you is because my knowledge of words wouldn't justify the way your lips curve in a half-smile when you find something amusing. How could I use my words to describe the light in your eyes when you look at me? I can't pen the way your eyes talk to me. I am asked to put in words what our silence says for us. Do you see the fault in their absurd request? 

I want to explain my sanity but my voice shakes. I can't say your name without thinking of the way the stars would bow to your existence. I feel small, you see. Inconsequential, infinitesimal, worth nothing more than a grain of sand does in a desert. They ask me to sum up my feelings for you in words. They have lost it. You know the tiny rainbows you see in dried water droplets when sunlight falls on them? I see you in them. Because surely if something so tiny could hold an entire color palette then it must be love. How do you write about love that makes angels weep? You don't. You become it.

Sometimes I look through the window and see a child. A little four year old girl. I don’t know her. She doesn’t know me. I see her kicking a soccer ball around. Sometimes her brother joins her, but usually she’s alone. I just sit by my window and look at her. She looks so precious. I don’t know what gets into me but at that moment, I want to protect her from the world. I know it’s ridiculous. I know I don’t know her. I know it’s not up to me to do anything for her. And yet against all rationales, I want to protect her from what’s out there. I want to protect her from growing up and finding out the beauty of knee scars and slide burns. I want to protect her from getting her dreams crushed. I want to protect her heart from being snatched out of her body and stabbed until it ceases to exist. I want to protect her from finding out that the person she idolized was actually a pervert. I want to protect her from every painful thing in the world. I want to protect her innocence. I want to save her.

So I scream at the universe, don’t you see how fragile she is?

The universe answers, do you not see her tears? She is carved of bones and spirit. She is made of stars. The heavens and hell rage a war over her soul. And yet all you see is her delicacy.