House of Cards


House of Cards

I built a fortress, tentatively,
Barring the walls
From my own hate
Each faint memory
Emblazoned on cards
Away from the real world
O’er dead pieces of eight

Stacked the queens
With the jesters
In corners
Marked the turrets
With knaves
And kings
Vision by vision, elaborately
layered my house
It expanded,
Under the weight of
So much hope
My dreams buckled
paper thin
Cards fell, lay crushed,
And I with them

What else
could such an endeavor

Building a rickety
House of cards
On a windy day
It’s just tempting fate
That’s what I get
For climbing so high
And giving my Heart
To a Spade

© CM




I was acutely aware of the stone
Harshly cradling
my prone form
Against the curve of my back
I lay, exposed
Displayed to the Elements
To the fury
Of the storm

The Sky stared down
Dew drops trickled
Down from my hair
Down from my eyes
Furrowing new paths
As if,
to the Sea,
Tracing rivulets
Cold, wet
Where I began
I didn’t know
How much was rain
How much tears
How much of that marking me
Or sweat
How long, or
From where,
I flowed

Glistening, thus postured, I
Stretched out,
Limbs askew, throat bared, eyes
Wild behind the
Ebony cascade
I languished there
The sacrificial lamb that
Did not run away
Awaiting your footsteps
Bristling through the heather
Anticipating the descent
Of one
Who obeyed

By more than chains
On a refrain
Captive, of my own will,
Arms outstretched, keening in supplication
I prayed

© CM

Through the Eyes of a Child


Sometimes I think that I’ll forget it all, and then the smallest trigger causes the floodgates of memory to open wide. Bad memories. They’re akin to magma, simmering and bubbling ominously, silently in the crevices. A hint of pressure, a fiery spark, and it all erupts. No wonder then, that it feels like there’s a crater in my mind. A void, a deep, empty, hollow void. A ready receptacle for the next flood of memories.

My first lucid memory of my father is from when I was around three years old. One of the house help had broken a glass after breakfast, and blamed me for it. Not that I had any awareness of the fact at the time, I just knew that I hadn’t done it. I was ‘brought’ to my father for judgement, for appropriate punishment. I said that I didn’t do it, and he said he’d make me confess. So I stood there in front of him, even then not a crier, and he rapped a wooden ladle across my knuckles, each time asking, “did you do it?”. And each time I’d say, “no, I didn’t”, and it would incense him even more. After a prolonged and fruitless interrogation, he decided that I needed to be taught a lesson about lying. So he shut me in the store room at the back, in the dark.

By the time dinner time came around, the maid’s guilty conscience probably got the better of her, and she went and confessed my mother. A huge hue and cry ensued and they opened the storeroom to find me sitting in a corner, wide awake and long finished crying, still in the dark. My father chose to observe that I’d probably fallen asleep in there anyway, no harm done, and everyone silently agreed. It wasn’t worth the argument, to differ.

I was never afraid of the dark ever again, not at any point in my entire life.

I grew up dreaming of various ways I would get back at my father, for everything he’d put my family through, for everything he’d put me through. One of my favorite fantasies was that I’d lock him up in a germ free isolation I’d read about in a Sidney Sheldon novel, I forget which one. One of the rich men is so germ phobic that he refuses to meet anyone without an unbreakable glass barrier in the middle. I always wanted to put my father behind one of those glass barriers, heck, in an unbreakable glass box. And then I would tell him everything I think about him, everything I’ve always want to say, without fear of the beating of my life (or that would end my life, lol). And he wouldn’t ever be able to get to me, through the unbreakable glass…

Life never gave me that opportunity. Not yet, anyway. I learnt how to die a little inside, every time he erupted. Eventually, I died so much that I could die no more, and I just existed, beyond that point. I progressed through the Five Stages of Grief that generally apply to a close person dying, every time I died. And I learnt, I kept learning.

After years of erosion, the damage is fairly significant. The fire has cooled, though. Instead of burning my hands to cinders, letting the anger eat away inside me from bottling it up so tight, each time there’s an ‘episode’, I recede into an unshakeable calm. The volatile nature of anger has long given way to the much more sluggish trickle of pure, unadulterated hate. Tolerance, and hate. I still hate him, more so every time he does what he does, what we are forced to bear. But now, I know he doesn’t know any better. He’s a mad man, he can’t control it. I understand that, and hate him just the same.

Through the eyes of a child, the world is simply love and hate. And the lessons learnt in childhood are rarely misguided. I was given my first taste of hate a long time ago. I learned it, and I remember.

And even if, in some miraculous way, i forgive?

I’ll never forget.

Beetle Nut!

Beetle Nut!!

I was standing in my yard (that magical land of fantasy and adventure) when this Lil Feller plopped down onto the ground, quite right out of the sky. He blushed a pretty green to see me, then bloomed a wondrous orange yellow in the sun, and admittedly, I was stunned.

Not stunned enough to forget to take a picture for you guys, though. :)


Hugs from a bug,

Cookie <3

L’amour et la réalisation


L’amour et la Réalisation

I realized something today.

I don’t suck in my stomach around you anymore. You know, the way I self consciously hold it in around other people. Most of the time, I just curl up next to you, all thoughts of crossing my legs or tucking my ankles in, long forgotten.

I rarely touch my make up up, when we go out. I generally end up eating my lip gloss and my eyeliner fades to a few shades lighter, but none of those things, that i would otherwise fuss about, none of that even registers.

I don’t feel like I need make up to be pretty, around you. I feel pretty all the time, around you. And it feels pretty good.

The same goes for high heels. I realized that I no longer make my feet suffer tottering stacked heels or stilettos every day. I don’t really feel like I need to compensate, for being a shorty. I wear them when I feel like, and when I don’t feel like, I don’t.

Just like I’m not holding back when I laugh with you. At that moment, I feel genuine delight, not the need to not smile so wide because my teeth are too big, or my cheeks too puffy. I laugh, and it feels pretty good.

Just like I don’t obsess about my hair, or my clothes. All the artificialities, all the pretense, all the reins have fallen away.

Just like I don’t rein in my tongue, or bite back answers I know, so that I don’t seem too smart. Or like a know it all. How I’m not afraid of taking the spotlight anymore. Simultaneously, how I don’t feel like I need to prove myself to anyone. How I’m content with just watching, and listening. And learning.

Just like I’m not ashamed of being who I am. Of eating as much as I want to when I’m hungry, without being paranoid that I’ll be taken for a glutton. Like I’m not guilty of taking some time off for myself, a feat hitherto unheard of.

Like feeling that I deserve good things too, and that settling would be unfair to me. I’m not ashamed of feeling like I deserve something.

Like I am someone.

Did you ever realize, all that you’ve done for me?

I’m eating a walnut brownie sundae right now. It tastes pretty good. And the fact that I can eat it, and no longer need to obsess about throwing it up soon… I wont lie, it feels pretty good. =)


Cookie <3

Dream On


So much is often said about daring to dream. To envision, to paint a picture in your mind’s eye when both your eyes are open. You’d think, after all the quotes, the stories, the poems, you’d think it would be easier to dare to dream.

But to dream is, in actuality, an extremely brave thing. You have to believe in the possibility of betterment. In the premise that a better future exists. To dream, to be able to dream, you have to hope. You have to let yourself hope.

To build a dream, you have to have the courage to paint a world ahead of you.
Something I’ve always been incapable of, until recently.

It’s always been a feat beyond my ken, to even put myself out there, enough to dare to dream. To think that there could be something, or someone, in my life I’d want to live for. That I could find myself worth living for.

And yet, it’s true. I find myself in completely uncharted territory, daring to dream. Daring to imagine a life where I can have the job I want, the friends I want, the life I want. A home, the slightest possibility of marital bliss, maybe even children. It’s as if walls have fallen away and my mind is racing to infinity in all directions, from it’s pedestal of contentment. And truly, I’ve never been content enough to allow myself, to dare to dream.

Of Joy. Of happiness. To think of a place where my existence is not a mindless drudgery. To think of myself in such a place, and more. To love, to be loved. Dreams of happiness, like never before.

And I see them so plainly, that it’s as if through an open window. A mirror of glass so crystal clear that it would ripple, were I to touch it. And I’m afraid, I’m almost afraid to look at them too long. That my dreams might splinter and break under the very weight of hope I’m pinning on them. The unexplainable dreams that stemmed from some radiant moment, the dreams who’s absurdity I cannot begin to reason, dreams, all these dreams. Am I building them up, just to be crushed under their weight, when they fall? Is there an answer to the uncertainty that I’ll survive another broken tie, another wasted effort?

I suppose that it’s a chance I’m willing to take, even if unconsciously.

Now that I’m daring to dream…

Starlight and moonwhispers,

Cookie <3

Ps. Sing with me, even if just for today <3




Lapses of judgement
In moments of indecision
From emptiness
Gnawing away

Eating at the edges
Gaping maw like scars
Barren fields of thought
The wasted space

Of oblivion, of eternity,
Both potent promises
Of love
vacant lies

Abysses loom
Behind every breath
Behind every pulse
Scented in blood
Staring, desolate
are dry eyes

Voids live
In those black
the real world
with disbelief
Perpetuating voids
of regret
Feeding off the pain
And the fears grow on
Past all

All irreparable