Eyes of the Sun

As she sits on the bench in the cool, silent lobby of the hospital, she watches as goosebumps erupted on her arms, making the fine hair stand erect. The cold hardness of the metal bench bites into whatever part of her skin touches it. She can hear her hearbeat protest loudly to the situation - nothing is going right. Something screams the truth that hasn't been revealed yet. Something - the reason provoking her goosebumps that have nothing to do with the stupid bench. Something - the stinging feeling deep in her eyes, pushing fat, saline drops out, making them roll down her pallid cheek, and new ones chase them down vigorously.

The scene morphs slowly, scarily into something else, something she cannot face. The hospital lobby twists and turns and fades into a dark, half-moonlit, eerily silent graveyard. She slowly raises her head to look at the growing shadow - he's back. He has risen from the grave of reality to take her as well. She meets his gaze with swollen, red eyes. His are black, with clean, emotionless whites. Behind him, the army stands again, graceless, dead statues, scrutinizing her face. Ignoring their piercing stares, she looks at him, waiting. For what? For decision to click in his eyes. For him to say that word - the word that will freeze her world. He looks up at her, no longer indecisive.

He has chosen.

He disappears back into the shadows of the grave. Traitor. Almost spitting with rage and hurt, she knows what will happen now. The army hasn't followed him. They haven't moved a muscle, eyes still locked on hers. Eyes filled with venom no one but she can see. She turns and starts running. Once again. Gasping, she trips over non-existent cracks and stones on the ground, or maybe her own feet. Desperately, she looks for a way out. But it seems the world is not in her favour. She can only keep running.

She is too scared and too tired to look back, but she can feel the footsteps gaining, the shadows lengthening, her feet slowing as pain shoots up her legs, crawling evilly over her fate. For a second, she wonders if she should just give up. What's the point of running all your life? But before the moment could pass, and she could regain her strength from a newly made decision that was not given a chance to come, hands. Hands on her shoulders, roughly pulling her back. Hands on her hips, back, legs, lifting her writhing, shrieking body up.

She knows she has lost now. There is no point in screaming. But she doesn't stop, as they religiously carry her back, ignoring her struggles. She squeezes her eyes shut, desperate to escape their robotic voices, the reality. The next thing she knows, the hands are gone, she is being set down on the ground, but the moment the relief from the filthy hands being removed starts to sweep over her, she winces from the harsh, loud metallic bang of the iron bars. Her eyes open, startled, to stare right into a pair of murderous eyes that withhold the realm of black truth in them. The eyes of reality.

*     *     *

She shifts slightly and again winces from the coldness of the hospital bench as she gets up. The nurses dressed up in white slowly help her stand up, smiling pitifully at her, a tiny smile that breaks her soul. They lead her frail, trembling body away from him, with gentle but firm hands. She doesn't struggle, she knows it's pointless. She doesn't look back, she knows he's there, eyes boring into her back, as he speaks with the doctor.

Blink. Gone.

This poem is dedicated to every single animal in the world, from every little ant to every human to every huge elephant.

Day and night, I quietly sit and whisper
to a tiny, shielded soul to fight,
radiating warmth and luminosity,
the only thing keeping me alive.

The shield shivers; it is ready to face
the eagerly awaiting world,
a little squeal from it inside,
a little crack appears on its shield.

Please don’t wake up yet,
before mommy comes back, dear.
I shall come soon with your first meal
while you battle for your right.

Cold stoniness swimming in the air
greets me when I rush back;
the nest is bitter and evil now;
the shield has been broken.

The bitten edges scream what I cannot face,
agony smashes me into a billion pieces
like an iron hammer to my naked skull!
But my emotionless body remains unhurt.

Broken as I am, I can smell the enemy’s stench;
I know he is looming in the corner behind me,
I know he will not harm me; like a statue he is waiting,
he is waiting for this torture to start again.

The Girl with the White Cane

This poem is dedicated to all the pessimists and those in mourning/depression/anyone who is upset out there, and specially dedicated to Asthaa. :)

In the morning, she steps out of her cottage
with her loyal white cane to guide her.

She walks on the beach, on the wet sand

that speaks the voices of a million spirits.

She smiles as the sand tickles her toes

as they laugh and play with each other,

and feels the rush of the waves to greet her

to the innermost core of her bones

and feels them lovingly lap the tips of her toes.

She listens patiently to what the waves have to say,

smells their ticklish salty fragrance,

and tastes their words on the back of her tongue.

She listens to the seagulls as they sing to each other,

and listens to the distant call of a fast sailing ship.

She feels the warmth of sunlight splashed on her face

and tastes his blessings on her tongue.

She sits down and picks up a seashell,

and holding it to her ear, she listens

to the speech of the shy, young spirit hiding inside.

She smiles as he whispers to her a secret

pleased that she is the only one who knows.

She touches the carvings and shape of the shell,

assuring him that his secret is safe.

She feels and listens to the pleasant hum of Mother Nature,

nestled deep within the core of the earth,

she places her hand on the surface,

and assures her everything will be okay one day.

She picks up her white cane

and walking back home, smiles as she remembers

today is her first day at school;

the school for the blind.

Read it everyday, Asthaa.

Silhouette

This poem is dedicated to Acintya, my dear, lovely, beautiful, perfect, angelic niece. I love you so, so much, and I always will. Your smiles and giggles make my soul melt. <3

The sunlight is peeking at us through the leaves

we look up – the sunlight is embracing the trees,
creating flickering iridescent swirls and gleams,
shyly watching us play like a lonely child.

It plays with our skin, turning the forest to gold
and makes zealous shadows chase us like poltergeists;
the colours of still life watch in amusement
as our delighted laughter echoes.

Together we bring joy to silent plant life;
we play with them when they rejoice,
we scoop up their tears as they cry,
while our eternal silhouettes dance.

Sculpture

Shapeless, unnoticed, invisible,

resting by the peaceful ocean all day long
a big piece of rock, like an embryo;
suckling its thumb quietly
in the safe, warm confinements of the womb.
Blind, it whiles away its time listening
to the crisp, calm voice of the rhythmic waves.
Was that its mommy?
Then sudden pain, difficulty, forced to the reality,
the waves gasping with pain and joy . . . then,
another soul, another unique creation born!
Nurtured, carved, with bruised, sweating, loving hands,
into a beautiful, unique, visible sculpture
to be admired by an awestruck crowd,
to leave its print on the world.

Translucence

This one's for you, Rose. The one who began my life. (She writes all the stories in this blog, if you didn't know it already.) My sweet Starter. :P (No, not the food. It's a long story. Inside joke.)

Hidden deep within nature’s castle,

I am her ancient beautician.
She created me with her own blood;
I am an immortal princess.

She disguises me, changes my colour;
she is selfless as a mother should be.
Like a spoiled child, I do not venture out;
Forever embedded in mommy’s womb.

You spear her, abuse her,
all in search of me, like a drug addict.
She resists as she can, but you annihilate her,
and kidnapping me, you claim me as your own.

You unlock the monster in you
whom you served, using me as the key.
It conquers and inhabits you;
to control your mind forever.

You amputate me, you torture me,
and stripping me of my clothes,
you secretly finger the pieces greedily,
flaunting your riches to drooling admirers.

In the light, I show you glimpses
of the monster you have become,
but the sun blinds you from realizing
the truth I scream out loud.

The Immortal Bride

I recently started sharing my dedications on my blog. Most of the time, when I write a poem, I have someone who repeatedly appears in my mind when I read it again. Why didn't I think of this before? This poem is dedicated to Kiran Susan. :)

An invisible bride stands tall and proud,

clothed in nature’s eternal wedding gown.
She turns a deaf ear to the cloud’s lectures,
and patiently awaits her groom.

She speaks to the pearls on her dress;
with her breath, she brings them to life.
She lets them play on the smooth material,
and explore the depths of its bubbly train.

She swims with the pearls often,
and like a liquid spirit, she creates more life,
bringing colour to the quiet world;
but she still arrogantly awaits her groom.

Her spirit lingers everywhere, searching;
searching desperately for her groom,
throwing tantrums at her mother and bridesmaids,
whether she will wed him one day, it is not known.

A page from the diary of a bleeding soul . . .

The ticking of the clock is so loud I can hardly restrain my hands from destroying it. I ball my hands into fists, as I wait – wait for it to begin. It’s a part of my daily routine – whether I liked it or not. I have long grown to get accustomed to the anticipation, the confinement, the repeated pain that’s never abated . . . there’s nothing new. My ears are searching for those footsteps that seemed to put emphasis on themselves. I sigh, as if a child had done some mischief. The door is unlocked and it creaks open, like the door to my life – opened whenever anyone wants to; I have no privacy. I don’t move, or even look up. I feel . . . what do I feel? This is the umpteenth time it’s happening. There is definitely some emotion buried somewhere, encouraging my heart to beat faster, synchronizing with the vampire’s footsteps.

He kneels down in front of me. I still don’t look at him. My eyes are stubbornly fixed on the stupid clock. He is a patient man; he waits for me to look at him. Irritably, he grabs my chin and turns my head to look into his murderous, drugged eyes. They show every seething emotion, mainly frustration. I look back calmly, which only angers him more. He wants me to cower or try to escape; he likes his victims to beg for mercy. I don’t give him that satisfaction.

Giving up, he holds my fragile form in a vice-like grip, pulling me to him. His hands are shaking with greed and eagerness. I close my eyes, as I always do for this part. I have no desire to witness anything he has planned for me. Every physical feeling and emotion registers in my mind, to be embedded in my memories forever. He rips off what is left of my clothes. I can hear the vampire’s breath gasping greedily on my soft belly, as he runs his dirty fingers across it, digging his nails into my skin. His searching tongue explores me greedily. More clothes being ripped. My face is being pushed down, my tongue is being forced to move with another slimy tongue. Hands – my father’s hands – which are supposed to be caressing my hair lovingly, are instead caressing the part between my legs lovingly – love for my body. They are digging deeper and deeper inside me like a slimy worm in my body, with the pure intention of pleasure and torture. A female voice screams shrilly, cruelly – is it me? I cannot think through the pain and disgust and wetness. My still-growing breasts are being shaped by the vampire’s wet hands – so hard, I can’t even scream.

And then it’s over. He leaves without a word, closing the door behind him. I am lying on my bed, completely defeated. Pain is playing through my body and I burst into uncontrollable tears, gasping - gasping to let the remnants of my soul breathe. The vampire has been satiated. Except this vampire desires not blood or flesh, but something much worse.

My soul.

An Abandoned Antique

My taste buds have retired;
everything they taste is bland like the truth.
My eyes have given up trying to squint through the smoke
that never flickers; it seems to haunt me like my ghost.
Now I can no longer see the familiar faces;
I wonder if they hide amidst the still smoke.

The polluted air is choking me;
desensitizes my senses, one by one.
It is harsh, like iron clamps, it resists me
from living what is left of my wasted life.
I miss the ones I used to know in the queerest way.
Silence screams wordless anguish at me.

The smoke is toxic; it makes me cough so hard,
and each time I do, I emit parts of my soul;
it is killing me little by little,
scarring me like a cruel disease.
The hidden ones cannot see me.
Or are they even searching?

Gravity's Toy

When I fall,

earthlings dance in my midst.
They bathe in my glory,
and let me seep through their home.

I bring to them colour and health,

like moisturizing a woman’s skin.
I console when my lover is too harsh,
and together we create a halo around the world.

When I stop,
they shed quiet, sad tears,
relishing any traces of me that linger,
rejoicing the treasure I left them.

I am a nomad, the cloud is my caravan.
I mingle with the elements,
tickling the skies so hard they cry,
entertaining the earth so.

I am the only exception to gravity;
for he likes my boisterous attitude,
he lets me play to my heart’s content
as long as I return home after.

Nature's Vein

Ugly eight-legged creature,

the colour of nature.

I swallow my morose feelings

I'm chained to the still saplings.

I blend in, glad to be invisible,

I am the leaf's heart, untraceable.

Unable to face the cruel soil anymore,

I encase myself, but still flows the gore,

I'm shying away from the world, a coward!

Keeping my sore heart from moving toward

the unknown; I do not want it wounded.

By the cocoon, a product of my fear, I am bounded.

But my betraying fortress, it crumbles

Inviting me to fall down to my troubles

But nature, she comes to my aid,

And into the green I do not fade,

For she gifts me with wings so colourful.

Like the rainbow, I take flight and drink up the world so plentiful.

I made my choice

I have spent a lot of time, wondering when I would have the guts to do it. Sometimes I would be desperately searching for the blade, then ending up crying in a pile on the floor when my fingers were too frantic and my eyes were too blurred to find it. Sometimes I would be calmer and would find it the moment I walk into the room – I know exactly where it is kept since I finger it every day, wishing I could satisfy the metal that yearns for my blood.

But I couldn’t respond to that tantalizing voice that whispers my name, almost seductively, coaxing me to just do it. It’s just a cut. Until now, I have succeeded in ignoring the voice. It fades away, disappointed. Because when I see that blade, the first thought that comes into my head is the ones I love – the few ones who have always stood by me, the ones who have been the only reason I’m still alive. I restrained myself just for them.

But it can’t go on for the rest of my life. I’m just not destined to get baggy skin and cloudy eyes. I know you’re supposed to prepare for the worst, hope for the best, work hard in life for your passion, choose what you think is the right path for you and leave the rest up to destiny. But I have chosen my path – to take my destiny and my life into my own hands.

I take a deep breath, and pick up the small but significant tool, my fingers running over the gleaming silent metal whose edges scream a thousand wordless thoughts. It’s beautiful – how just one slash of pain has the potential to bring utter bliss. My steady fingers press the blade to my wrist, bringing together warm blood and cold metal – like a couple embracing after a million years of silent yearning.

My vision blurs frequently, and then becomes clear again, like a throbbing pulse. I watch, drugged, as the blood flows down slowly in a straight glistening, crimson line. It bifurcates into two, three, four lines; beautiful patterns contrasting with my pallid skin. They become smudged when I stumble. I watch as the elixir of my life flows out, as my life leaks out of the physical realm where my mental senses are contained. It’s a cliché, but unfortunately, my life runs before my eyes like a fast-forwarded horror movie. No, I don’t want a flashback! I immediately squeeze my eyes shut and uselessly cover my face with my bloody arms, but to my dismay, it keeps running, uninterrupted, on the insides of my eyelids, and then it’s over. Whew.

My image blurs, and so does the pain. This is it! I can still feel my life being cruelly sucked out of me, but it is almost over. And then, I am no longer seeing or feeling. My soul and spirit take full control. I am no longer contained inside the walls of my body. I have finally burst the bubble.

Quiet, calm relief envelopes me. I’m finally at liberty, finally free from the clamps and chains that have been trapping me to the face of the earth, to my life. I can still feel the decision I made, to the core of my soul, in the eye of the hurricane. But I do not remember my worries or anything, even the reason why I am free. Ignorance truly is bliss.

The Barred Window

She lies on the grimy floor of the dungeon,
Dreaming of feeling the soft grass between her bare toes,
She longs to see, taste, touch, hear and feel every bit of the free world,
She covets laughter, love and life.

Her cheeks are stiff with dried tears,
Her face and fragile body stained with filth,
Red veins are scattered on the whites of her eyes,
From many sleepless nights.

She peers out the barred window
And watches others live unrestricted,
Like a starved child, drinks up the scarce sunlight
Pouring in through the window in pitiful quantities.

She has company in this prison of hell,
But they do not know of life outside the iron clamps,
They refuse to be enlightened,
For they are forever cursed with blindness.

Refusing to remain contained, she makes a vow,
For her destiny is not to stare wistfully at the keyhole,
She smiles in anticipation as she glances out the window again,
For she will find the key.

Dream

We all have dreams. Not one soul among us has successfully reached their goal without at least a few troubles and hindrances here and there (unless you are freaking rich, and even then, it's not always possible - it depends on your character).

The strong-willed, confident, patient ones are more likely to fulfill their dreams than the others. The impatient, wavering-minded ones either give up easily or decide to make a new approach to their hardships, and pick up again after some time, and they too achieve their goals. But whatever it is, if you put your mind to it, one day or the other, whether you're twenty or seventy, you'll reach your goal, and all that effort, all that blood and sweat you put into it will pay off. Here's my message in short: don't give up. Pursue your dream. Do not, on any account, stop. Just keep going.

So here's a poem I wrote, specially dedicated for all those pursuers of dreams out there, just like me. Don't worry (I don't - at least, not most of the time), you'll get there one day, just like I know I will too. It's normal to worry. Even if you are blind, deaf, dumb and physically handicapped, all at the same time, you'll get it if you put your mind to it. One day, you will.

DREAM

Darkness, peace, silence,

except for the rhythmic breeze.

Then the wind falters;

a sudden flicker of colour

like still butterflies

taking flight all together.

Now you have entered a world

entirely yours.

Your imagination is
the atmosphere of this world.

Your troubles and pleasures

control its future.

Your thoughts are

the essence of this world.

Your mental state

determines its virtue.

The ornament on the wall

is nothing but a result of superstition.

It possesses neither power nor control

over your world.

Let it hinder you not,

for life is neither fair nor easy.

But eventually, in the end,

it will all be worth it.

Remember: don't ever, EVER, give up. I know, I know, easier said than done. But as I pointedly said in my poem, life is neither fair nor easy. It's a cliche, I know, but sadly, it's true. And since life is also short, we might as well stop complaining and start doing.

Good luck!

Thirty Years Later

I once thought my soul was shaped
to fit into your soul’s crevices
like a puzzle piece.

I once thought my heart started beating
only when I found you
or maybe it just beat faster.

I once used to gaze into your electrifying eyes
and find myself lost
in a melting ocean blue world.

I once used to cherish your lopsided smile
and the way your eyes twinkled
when you looked at me.

And here I am, thirty years later, wanting to say,
I still think and feel the same.

The puzzle pieces might be old and tattered now on the outside,
but they still fit just like they did thirty years ago,
and our souls dance with vigour in each other's presence.

Our hearts might be slower and inching toward their last beat,
but our spirits are still just as alacritous as thirty years ago,
and we still live with the same enthusiasm, as long as we have each other.

Our eyes may have clouded over with age and grayness,
but I can still see your halo as well as thirty years ago
and I still find myself lost in your eyes sometimes.

Our skin may be wrinkled and baggy,
but your smile, undisturbed, is still heart-throbbing,
and our joy and love for each other
may not always show on the outside
but on the inside they are deeper, more profound and unconditional.

Thirty years later,
here we are, still together,
sitting out on the porch as days lazily drag on,
galloping toward our last breath
together.

Usually I start off the blog post with a little intro and inspiration for the poem I'm showing you this time, but I wanted you to find out on your own that this particular love poem I wrote recently is about the older and wiser generation, and not about a break-up. The title may have given away the little secret, but still. I think the starting sounds slightly misleading at first.

Most of the love poems I've read have been about the younger generation. I know there are many poems about the older generation, and if you know any, please give me the links by commenting below. But the fact that I haven't read any, drove me to write this poem, rather than find some to read. If you know any, please, please, comment below. Otherwise . . . well, still leave a comment! :)

The Door

I open, and I close.

You decide when I open and when I close.
I can lead you to your dreams
or just to the next room.
Without me, there is no security of life,
without me, there is no past, present or future.
I decide whether to keep you open to the world
or closed away from everything and everyone
but you are the cause for my decisions
you can enjoy solitary bliss with me
I won’t let anyone in if you tell me not to
you can trust me with that
but trust is not something easily gained or given.
You can decide where I lead you
it’s all in your hands
I will obey you
but on one condition;
if you gift me with strength
then I stand strong for you
if I am not sturdy
then I have no choice but to I crumble
and you would be left with nothing
to defend yourself with.
I open and I close.

When a loved one hurts you, is it possible to love them even more?

No, this is not a mushy, lovey-dovey story about how I had a boyfriend and he dumped me and I got hurt. No, that’s not what happened.

There is really no exact way to explain this. You know those dark emotional corners of your life where you can make out vague shapes but you don’t really know what’s exactly there? Or if you haven’t had that experience, you might have at least had the experience where a person is lying to you, and you see a flicker of emotion in their eyes for a millisecond which could give them away, but you can’t identify it?

Well, that’s the best way I can frame my thoughts to explain my unfathomable feelings to you. Perhaps you’ll see this as an unimportant thing which may or may not have happened to you once, for a second.

But I think that if you really consider the tiny little unexplainable things that happen in your life which so many people, maybe even some psychologists and philosophers shrug off, you’ll be able to bring light to some of the dark corners and identify the shapes.

So here’s what happened to me: my best friend, whom I love with all my heart, lied to me. Yeah, she did it for a good reason. And the lie was so huge that although I knew she did it for a good reason, I knew she had a choice; it wasn’t that she should’ve lied. She did have the choice of telling the truth. And I was naturally very hurt. So hurt that I cried. And yet, I was not mad at her. At all. Not in the least.

The really weird thing was that, in that moment, I really needed her, and I loved her so much more. I couldn’t understand why, though it felt like I did, and . . . it felt like a natural thing to do, like breathing – it was like, of course I love her more. How could I not? I was not mad at her in the least, even though I was majorly hurt. I called her that night and explained my feelings to her, and we talked for a long time. I was still hurt, but I couldn’t not talk to her. I was almost scared to keep the phone.

It brought us much closer, closer than we’d already been. Although neither of us could understand my feelings, we connected so much that night.

I still don’t understand my feelings, but as I said before, always, always, keep in mind the little things that you can’t understand about your life, no matter how small they seem, even if they have nothing in connection to my story. And if it’s about another person, don’t keep it to yourself. If I’d kept my feelings to myself, they would have either eventually built up or faded away, and who knows, I might have lost something important, maybe even my friend.

No matter how unimportant that little part of your life might seem, never forget it, never let it go away without understanding it. I know most people like to forget the parts of their lives which they might consider sad or weird, or whatever. They might not understand those little pieces of their lives sometimes. But even if you feel like a weirdo or freak, you have the right to understand every single part of your life. Think about those unexplainable feelings or things that you did, or thought. Try to understand them. It might take a long time, even years. But one day, I assure you, you’ll get it. One day, it’ll just click.

And when you do understand, you might have a negative or a positive reaction to it. But whatever it may be, at least you understood it. At least you didn't die still now knowing. You won't regret it.

The Prehistoric Woman

I recently read this book "Why Men Don't Listen and Women Can't Read Maps" by Barbara and Allan Pease. It's a really awesome book that proves that women and men are different - not unequal, just different. Most things that people might perceive as "sexist" is not really sexist, it's just how men and women think. The different ways in which men and women think is mainly because of the way our ancestors behaved - the man hunted, and the woman defended the children from wild animals and tended to them. The book is not actually about the prehistoric man or woman, just how they influence our behavior and thoughts today. But this book still sort of inspired me in a weird way to write this poem, and I just wanted to share it with you.

THE PREHISTORIC WOMAN


As she glances around using her peripheral vision,
her mission to protect her nest, always in suspicion,
she guards the home, tends to her offspring,
awaiting her loved one, to her children lullabies she would sing.

While the man ventures out to hunt meat,
she looks after her children and keeps the home neat,
at those times facilities and luxuries were naught,
when the time of the month arrived, the pain she fought,

as blood trickled down her rough but beautiful legs,

the pain was so unbearable, to God, for mercy she begs.

But she had to stay strong and protect her children with her life,
until her loved one came back home to his wife.
She did not know if he would come back or not,
but she could not distract herself for she had to do a lot.

When unfriendly animals threaten to get past her guard,
she would defend her nest as much as she could for it was hard,
since strange animals back then were quite a strife,
especially with little ones to protect, which she would with her life.

While she is gifted with the privilege to give life,
he is gifted with the talent to care for his children and wife.
Her loved one and herself, they had equal roles in every way,
though the society portrays them otherwise to this day.

Hope - it's all I have left for now

There’s a day in our life when we open our eyes for the first time and see everything clearly, no lies, no hidden truth, just plain sight. It might happen when we are encouraged by a person, knowledge, almost anything. What happens when a blind, deaf and dumb person sees the world widely spread before her for the first time, hears the call of nature, smells the flowers, listens to the singsong sound of her own voice? She wants to explore, touch, hear, smell, use her newly found senses to the fullest. Well, it’s the same when I came to know about a world I never knew existed. I wanted to explore and find out more. When I did, I want to know even more. It’s like a thirst that is unquenchable.

I see the world I am in right now for what it really is, and I realize I don’t belong here. I never did. This is hell. But if I do leave and go home to the world I truly belong in, then I would hurt the ones I love, who are still oblivious to the fact that they are suffering, they are senseless. For them, it is too late. Their lives are almost over. I realize I am happy that I found my senses, happy for the fact that I at least know that I am in hell, while others around me still believe what they’re told – that they are in the right place, they are where they are supposed to be.

When I open my eyes every morning, the first thought that comes to my mind is where I am right now, what everyone thinks I am and what they expect me to be. I wish I could run away, far away, and never come back, but again, the loved ones. I can’t hurt them. Besides, they’re the ones who are holding me here as well. If anyone around here knew the real me, I’d probably be trapped here forever, never allowed to be the real me on the outside, always hiding, which is what I am doing right now.

So I turn to what is all I have left for now – hope. Hope, hope, hope. It’s all I have left, and all I can do to keep myself alive. Hope that I do get out of this hell someday, hope that one day I can finally be around people who actually love me back for the real me, hope that I won’t hurt my senseless loved ones in the process. Trust me, hope is the only thing you can do when you know you’re in hell and can do nothing about it presently. So if you’re in a similar situation, do what I do, till you get an out.

Hope.