She kept wishing she was a diamond, like all the other glittering girls around her. She wanted to be like them: precious, strong, desirable.
But she’s not. She could have been a diamond, or any other precious stone. But has a diamond ever changed the world? Has an emerald, a ruby, a sapphire, revolutionized how man lived?
For she was uranium. She was power. She was radiation. She was dangerous. Yet she doesn’t know it yet— that she can unleash her rage and decimate a world that men who fall in love build around her. She doesn’t know it then: that she had inside her the energy to bring light, to inspire discoveries, to create industries and societies. She doesn’t know it still, how just being near her is killing me slowly.
I didn’t know it then, for I am just a man. A man who fell in love with power, and as power corrupts, I desired to control her, to own her, to make her mine alone.

I wish..

“I wish I had met you sooner. If you were mine when I was sixteen 

I never would’ve fallen for that boy in my chemistry class 

and cracked my head open on his chest. 

I couldn’t see straight for 3 weeks after that. 
And maybe if I had known you since I was a little girl 

I never would’ve gotten sad enough to cut myself, 

a tick mark in my skin for each time my mother cried. 
And if we had met two summer’s ago 

I probably would’ve been asleep in your bed 

instead of in my big sister’s car 

when she crashed it 

and I could’ve twirled my fingers around your hair 

instead of pulling the strings out of hospital blankets. 
If we had met just a few months sooner 

I’d probably never know the taste of too many pills 

because my mouth would be too busy 

telling you that I love you. 
I know that people can’t save you, 

I’m just saying, I think that if we could go back in time, 

and kiss before the night the fire in my bedroom 

washed away the blood stains on my carpet, 

I wouldn’t know what it’s like to mean it 

when I say I want to die.”

I’m a Prostitute.

I’m a prostitute and people say ill about me. For them, I’m not a good person to talk to. I am someone with low social stature. I am someone who breaks home.

Well, I’m not here to justify myself but I’m the reason behind many Men’s happiness. When men get frustrated and all what they desperately want is a ‘Cunt’, they come to me. I satisfy them and stop potential rapes. You, highly respected women, owe a lot to me. 
You might be a writer, a painter, a businessman, an accountant or a lawyer. You charge for the services you provide to your clients and customers. You sell your talent. I have a body to offer and I serve it to my customers. They enjoy it and I satisfy them. That’s my talent and I charge for it. How come that makes me different from you? How come I don’t deserve to be treated with equal respect? 
There are women who are in a relationship and need to offer their body to their partners, every night. Some are even forced when they deny it. I, for a change, choose my customers. The only difference between me and them is of label. 
Yes, I am a prostitute.


What does it mean when we say goodbye

When we gently let go of someone’s hand

When all we want is to hold them closer

When all we wish is to be with each other?

Words mean nothing when we don’t understand

Goodbyes mean nothing when we simply cry.
What does it mean when we bid farewell

When we watch them go beyond our sight

When all we think is they should have stayed

When all we think are the mistakes we made?

Words mean nothing in the lonely night

Farewells mean nothing when your memories dwell.
What does it mean when they simply disappear

When without a word or trace, they leave for good

When all we remember reminds us of pain

When all we forget were lessons meant to remain?

Words means nothing— we know it should

Being gone means nothing when we still hold them dear.

Silent Girl

They said I’m just a small, shallow, town girl with a lewd shape, sensual lips, and no brain at all.
My beauty dazzled them from seeing the carcasses wasted in the shadowed forest behind my house. 

It’s a fearful place; details will be swallowed by the monster that lies within my heart. 

Yes, I’m that shameless whore that butchered lovers.

They said I’m just a small, shallow town girl with a lewd shape, sensual lips, and no brain at all.

What do they know?

I’m just whispering, can you hear me?

That Place

Night after night, he pounds me until the fountains of blood start to deliver.Night after night, fear becomes my fellow, and a bottle of vodka sleeps in my bed; I’m consumed.

Night after night, he rapes my shadow, he rapes my voice, no hope, no sunshine, just stress.

i need to go; my friend tells me about a place behind the sun, where broken-winged angels can find peace, can obtain a smile.

My house is a dark place and my story is a dark tale.

Moved on?

However invincible and impassable stance you put forward, I somehow know you still weep for him. However convincing you sound when you say you’ve moved on, I somehow know you still have him sheltered in the deepest folds of your heart, away from anyone’s reach, safe.

And everyday, when the chaos subsides and silence breaks, you drown yourself back to the time when you’re still together.
It is a lush green bed of grass you two are lying on. He’s giving the final strokes of brush to his painting.
“Why is it day in one half and night in the other half?”, you ask after some failed attempts to comprehend the painting, while shifting the weight of your head to his shoulder, the most comforting pillow ever.

“You see the mid-aged couple here?”, he points at the sheet, “they’re so much into each other that they have been sitting here all day without actually realizing it. Love such as this is so amazing. Isn’t it?”

There’s an amber sparkle in his eyes and you fall for them once again.

“Yes. It is.”, you whisper, “Are they us?”

“I dont mind.”, he laughs and pinches your nose and you love how it smells of the paint.
And you glance across the painting once more, now imagining you two on the wooden bench by that lake, talking and laughing, watching the sun cover the distance back to its abode, seeing the birds chirp their way back to their nests. And you realize that you dont feel the need to go anywhere else.

This is your home and has always been.
‘Thud’ the window slider falls and pulls you back to the present. It’s pouring outside and you feel you don’t belong here.

A year has passed since that day and there is nothing you wouldn’t trade in exchange to relive it once again, to just lie next to him, to rest your head on his shoulder, to smell the paint off his fingers, and to watch him paint your world.

The silence of the room, the thunder outside and the memories are the demons you dont have the courage to fight with anymore. So you close your eyes and sink on the floor.
Yes, you miss him. But you miss yourself more.