That night when darkness came down like thunder, swooping on us like this huge Falcon who just wants to tear flesh apart and smell the blood and feel the hardness of the bones. When your hardened skin roughed around the curves of my camptodactile finger, a vestigial organ, much like my battered heart that can't cease to bleed. That night when the dimmest lights came down raining upon us like huge stones that were pelted upon me in the form of those curses that still bruise my bare back, often a subject of your flawed poetry. When you counted each unruly strand of hair on my face and each wrinkled line on my parched lips until they aligned themselves in perfect harmony with your love and passion. That night. . . That night when you swore by each drop of my sweat and each line of fate on my palm, tracing them all to yourself. When you emptied the contents of your heart into the last glass I broke on my wrist, wishing, or rather hoping to see a river flow out from it, more crimson than the setting sun which bore witness to our vows that were never made.
That night. . . That night love, I swear I wasn't drunk when I told you that I was a mutilated dead body and that you had been loving a dead woman all this while. I have had my medicines. But you see, I wasn't wrong when I told you that you wouldn't be able to bear the pain gushing into your heart, rising slowly, catching you in its throes when you realise that I am a paper crumbling under the weight of guilt, your love and them curses. No, I wasn't crazy when I said that I was no Atlas who could carry the world and still sit up, I am the woman who danced on the moon, counted the stars, swum in the galaxy and was sucked into the black hole, the ever widening gulf slowly suffocating me like the rotting smell of smoke lingering in my asthmatic lung. I wasn't being poetic when I told you to count all the words in the dictionary for that was the number of more breaths I would take before I filled my lungs with my own blood, and you sit there to wallow in guilt for having done nothing, no wrong to me. That night I wasn't lying, I wasn't exaggerating, I wasn't craving for your sympathy when I told you that the black of my past could cloud your future too for the darkness is too much to even grope in and there are no shortcuts.
That night, I regretted having told you about myself, about how I wasn't the lady with a sweet soul but someone dragging the body without a soul. That night, I drank a concoction of a thousand stale memories and died not drowning in my own blood but that of yours and I felt no guilt as I stood over you, admiring the cuts on you that ran deeper than my poetry which flowed out of you just as it had been fed into your veins, slowly, methodically. I confess love, I confess to my crime.
That night. . . That night love, I swear I wasn't drunk when I told you that I was a mutilated dead body and that you had been loving a dead woman all this while. I have had my medicines. But you see, I wasn't wrong when I told you that you wouldn't be able to bear the pain gushing into your heart, rising slowly, catching you in its throes when you realise that I am a paper crumbling under the weight of guilt, your love and them curses. No, I wasn't crazy when I said that I was no Atlas who could carry the world and still sit up, I am the woman who danced on the moon, counted the stars, swum in the galaxy and was sucked into the black hole, the ever widening gulf slowly suffocating me like the rotting smell of smoke lingering in my asthmatic lung. I wasn't being poetic when I told you to count all the words in the dictionary for that was the number of more breaths I would take before I filled my lungs with my own blood, and you sit there to wallow in guilt for having done nothing, no wrong to me. That night I wasn't lying, I wasn't exaggerating, I wasn't craving for your sympathy when I told you that the black of my past could cloud your future too for the darkness is too much to even grope in and there are no shortcuts.
That night, I regretted having told you about myself, about how I wasn't the lady with a sweet soul but someone dragging the body without a soul. That night, I drank a concoction of a thousand stale memories and died not drowning in my own blood but that of yours and I felt no guilt as I stood over you, admiring the cuts on you that ran deeper than my poetry which flowed out of you just as it had been fed into your veins, slowly, methodically. I confess love, I confess to my crime.
