High. I am so high I can't kiss you back enough.
And no matter what I do, my feet wouldn't touch the ground.
The way we are perched on the parapet. Honey. Toes dangling in mid air. Seven floors above ground.
Or is it eight.
I want to jump off, as much as I want to stay put.
And I don't want to have to explain a thing. Any-thing. I choose to be ignorant. And wallow in this bliss, longer.
Till this high sustains me. Till I survive this high, just about right, to kiss you back enough. And return the favor. So that nothing is left un-bought. Such that I should feel I deserved it enough.
And such that I can get off from here, and walk back into my room. Feet waivering though, but still touching ground. Into my bed. And back to sleep.


There is. A crumpled shirt at the bottom of the wardrobe that nobody's gonna wear again. Shoes that gave unbearable shoe bites the first time and won't be touched again. Nail paint that weren't worth what they cost. Amongst other things bought and sold. There also is a guy. Man. Person. And one or two more inside the phone. Who don't just suffice. None of them make it to the mark. There's a few unread and worthy books. There's food. Frozen in the oven. And dark chocolate wrapped in scrap shiny paper. Purchased with money. For relief from some biting heartache. Just like lingerie. There is a lot of stories inside of my head. That should be read out aloud. Some day. Also a wild rage, a madness, insanity like nothing before strangled within. There is also the innocence. An innocence of not knowing the reason behind having everything. And yet having nothing at all.

There is everything. Yet nothing makes me want to be alive more than be dead. U understand.

I can feel a point where my clavicles meet the sternum. That's where this emptiness hurts the most. And when I close my eyes I can. I can feel my flesh collapsing into that solo point. And then the whole entire world following past.

Things we wouldn't do.

We wouldn't have to chase time all the time, squeeze our schedules to meet each other; we wouldn't have to wait for texts saying the other got home fine; we wouldn't have to pretend that we can bear shopping or that we believe in retail therapy just because the other thought we should; we wouldn't have to wear thin engagement rings on little fingers instead of the ring fingers and hide that we are engaged; or take bumpy cab rides together; or make un realistic plans to watch our favorite tv shows together; or make friends with each other's friends because now we would become part of a bigger circle apparently; nor would we have to tell our parents about us; and reveal the story from the beginning; or scream that we are going on some packaged honeymoon with nauseous bus rides that has a cash back offer on some hotel room; we don't have to keep the cards, or imagine what we could gift on the dates we would never remember
Those are things that lovers do. And we just have to do them anymore.
We wouldn't have to do so much now. That is a lot of burden off our chests. A long list off our to-do lists.

Underachievers' Anonymous-2

Life isn't perfect. Anything but that. Sometimes, all the imperfections, team up, look me in the eye, and ask. What have I done. Rebuke and ridicule. My minuscule existence. What have I done. I am certain years of age. And what have I accomplished in these certain years. Nothing much. Zilch.

I have gained on only one scale, I suppose, that of shamelessness. The shamelessness that makes me just about enough able to look at myself in the mirror. Day after day, everyday. All these years. And there's nothing else. All other scales I have lost on, I have been on this never ending nose-dive ever since. Ever since I can remember, since the beginning of memory, I have been a loser. No offence. I just have been.

The definition of an underachiever is like carved out for me. Like destiny has crafted me, to be some lab sample of an underachiever to be shown off. Such that others could know, find out about themselves too.

I am the last in line. The last one. The one too lazy to move on. Too tired to go get it. Incapable of practically everything. Fucking unbelievable, huh?

Except this unending wrath for myself and self destructive self hatred & disgust, what have I got. I'll tell you. Two useless degrees. Love handles. Scars on my face. Scars on my soul. Perfect understanding of all the sitcom characters that I adore. Wisdom of the wisdom-less books I have read. And forgotten. Bitten nails. A wardrobe of unloved dresses. An unloved heart. My share of sickness. A decent share, I swear. The work I do. The work that gets me nowhere. Hidden packs of cigarettes in the last shelves of drawers. Bitches, I am jealous of. And a few friends. Very few friends. And their undying & blemish-less love. And anger, my dormant anger. Plain undiluted unquenchable wrath. On life. Destiny, if that is. For giving me nothing I wanted. I also have my fears.

Sometimes I wish, if I despise life so much, then I must have nothing to lose. So let me, in the very least, be fearless. But no. Like icing on the freakin' cake, on top of all this, I am a coward.

And, now I am done.

Years ago, here.