Would You Listen To Me Anyway?

Trigger Warning:  Mention of cut on skin. 

"We demand closure as though our lives were put together as neatly as novels, but the fact of the matter is, they're not. In real life, relationships are messy and poorly written, ending too early or too late, and sometimes, in the middle of a sentence."

~Beau Taplin, Neatly As Novels

I'm in a mood to just write something for you. Oh, wait. Scratch that.

I'm in a mood to just write something for myself. I'll write. And you'll read. Not for solutions. Not for knowing if someone understands your problems. Not for any intentional advices. Not something motivational either.

You might not find any of these but sometimes you find solutions in the places which you're visiting with no intention of finding something. You just roam in the places which doesn't guarantee you the presence of what you're looking for and boom, you find something you didn't even know you needed.

I'll not say that I don't know from where I'll start and how would I end it. Rather, I'll say this:

I don't have any idea how it's gonna end; not how "I" would end it. And about from where to start, oh, I've already started, darling.

Sometimes, you just want to speak. Not for any other purpose than to speak. To say words. To speak all of it which is going inside you. So, let this piece of this whole unraveling, be a raw one. I won't make any corrections. No editing. Nothing. If you find any materialistic errors, assume it's done intentionally. Yes, assume that. So that when you'll find errors, you'll know you're reading attentively and I'll know that you chose not to correct what's written, instead you're listening what immaterialistic things I'm writing down here.

I'm just letting my fingers tap over the keyboard and my heart will decide the order of letters. I've to be careful though, otherwise it might reveal some-

no, shh, I better let it do some talking; the unspeakable things are not on the surface of my heart, anyway

I'm feeling so much. I can't name even one thing specifically. But just know, I'm feeling a part of every feeling you've ever known.

I've written poetries and other forms of write-ups in many variations of genres: uttermost love, romantic love, feeling of losing someone --romantic as well as non-romantic, dilemma of choosing between 'the person you love dying' or 'you yourself dying leaving your loved one in pain'; betrayal, loneliness, terrifying things with blades and knives; letter to the person you loved when you're dead asking them to visit you atleast once; hurting someone, hurting yourself, offering your soul to devil for someone important to you, begging for the love of a devil; feelings of someone who's crying in the grief of death of their-

hey, heart, you're going deeper, stay on the surface

All these write-ups have these different feelings and they're all written by me. When you write a love poem, you "choose" a set of similar feelings associated to love and mould it into words while suppressing the hurt you're going through. When you write a heart-wrenching poem --the kind on which people cry, sometimes with tears, sometimes without-- you sometimes write them and lift up a tear-wet paper and sometimes, you write them and end up discovering some more horrifying thoughts hidden inside you.

And sometimes, you just end up writing something that some very nice people who read that piece of writing are compelled to ask you if you're okay. 

Because yeah, no one is supposed to have nightmares where a girl is bleeding on a pile of knives. And definitely not the one, where an alive broken body is filled with blades on a seashore trying to scream in her last moments because she was never listened to.

hey, heart, don't you think you're going deeper from the other side now? be on the surface, please, you're probably making the person reading this terrified if they don't know you; control, be on the surface

If I'd be writing a poem, you'd probably be reading a measured amount of feelings but because this is a raw write-up, I didn't "choose" a particular set of feelings for this one. My heart is choosing the words. Remember? 

I'm just trying to keep it in control. If it needs to be controlled, do you think, I shouldn't let it speak? I don't know. I feel, everyone should have their chance. I didn't get mine. Let me-

no wait, scratch that

I didn't get mine, yet. But I give it that chance to speak. Atleast someone should use their right to give permission in the right way when they've the authority.

I give it the chance to speak even if, I'm incapable of handling it.

can't even throw it away; because it pumps blood, ugh

Oh, did I tell you that you're completely allowed to forget what you're reading here? No? Okay, I'd like you to forget all of it that you're reading right now; because yeah, who's gonna ask you what nightmare did Miss V had?

Speaking of which, I'd a new one yesterday.

hey, it's okay, don't get scared or worried; it's really okay, and if you're wondering about how am I? That's not my favourite question to answer. But thankyou for asking and there's nothing for you to worry about

Wait, I wanna tell you the one before yesterday, first. Yes. That can be called a nightmare. 

I don't remember how it started --afterall we never know the start of our dreams/nightmares-- I remember walking from a room to the kitchen with the smooth skin of my hands unmarked and in another moment, I saw a knife on the slab with red on it, some red on my left arm and finger of my right hand was borrowing the red from the new red lines on my skin. I believe smooth skin of my hand, now had marks covered in red and I guess, it was paining because it was the same red which was supposed to flow in my arm. I remember I wasn't crying even if it was paining.

dear heart, hey? don't reveal the nightmares, you agreed to stay on the surface, right? be on the surface. please?

I do know one thing for sure. The reason why I wasn't crying even if it was paining bad. If you've had a cut, you know that pain. I wasn't crying because someone did it. Intentionally. It wasn't a scratch. There were proper marks. Cuts. Opening for beautiful red colour. I wasn't crying either because I loved that person so much that if they did it intentionally, they might have thought about it --that's how blind I can be in love, can't help it-- or it might have been because I don't like this person. I hate them so much that I'd rather have some more cuts than cry in front of them. 

I woke up before I knew who did it.

_oh my heartttt, pleaseeeee_

And, I had a nightmare yesterday. I don't wanna call it a "nightmare" though, because I saw a person who was beautiful. In that, I remember seeing-

hey heart; I'm sorry but stop. Just stop, you really are hell-bent to prove my incapability of handling you. Stop.

I remember seeing that-

for God's sake, stop damn it

~Miss V