Meat Atoms 


Meat Atoms. Lumps of blood and flesh with indecipherable chemical impulses, derived from measurable stimuli. We grow from one cell to being Beings, with destinies and dreams and back to organic matter, crumbling under the soil. We are the molecules of the universe. We matter. 

I. Am. Not. 

  

I. Am. Not. 

With those words, could I cease to be?

Would that taut thread we walk, between today and tomorrow

Tatter into nonentity?

Do the separate organs of body too rebel?

Do my muscles know when I tell

Stories, or do they just guide the words, unconcerned

Have I inked only paper? Or has my flesh 

My tendons, my cartilage also

My stories learnt

Are my nuclei content to divide and multiply 

While I lay here, staring at the ceiling in the dark 

Do the cells in me that are reborn know what it is to die 

Half new, half hastily repaired parts 

My arm twitches, lying across my forehead 

My chest heaves with unspeakable things 

Can my alveoli taste the sour tang of fear too? 

Or oblivious, they function imperturbably 

They do not choke on inspiration, as I am wont to do

I. Am. Not. 

Not after tonight 

Oh, my body will still exist 

My skin will wrinkle, my joints will creak

But this hollow left inside, I’d gambled for this 

And I lost 

My axons will revel 

In their tallying synapses 

What never has been can leave 

No lapses 

But I’ll always know how much 

I’ll miss 

©CM 

20.02.2017

Fall

Why did He make me from clay?
What did He do to me?
What sort of vessel am I shaped into
To contain these fallacies?
Blinded, blinded, I don’t know my face
The mirror shows me a stranger
But ask me yours, where your smile lies and
I will know all the answers
Who are you, who gave you this
Power, over me, over my sense
Of reality, how did you change
My touch to thought, to impermanence
The sky is raw and the earth bleeding
How did you construct this bent
world, did God destroy me, or did you
-Did you both?

And what was my offence?

I loved you too much by any measure
I knew there was a gaping void
I promised myself, I’d fill the indifference
I’d push hard enough from my side-
and I did, see-
I’m already crazy
A drunk girl laughing at the edge of a cliff
Inching closer to the precipice, and
The howling promises of the wind- If
Only, if only, I could step away
If I could tell myself I mattered, you’ll miss
The scattered moments in your life
where I appear, where I exist
Inside my head, it’s a nice illusion
A sweet lie to say, if only
If only I could step away

Oh, that fall beckons too much, today

(c)CM
09.10.2016

Some days, nothing makes sense. Nothing you do makes sense. The rain stops  your sky and the walls won’t let you breathe and you want, you want someone to love, someone who will sit with you when you’re trying to make sense of what’s even fucking happening. In a corner of your mind you know you’re raving, but the other corners drown that tiny one out, and the day passes in a bewildered blur.

Maybe you want more. Maybe you want one sign, one small fucking sign that this altar you sit by isn’t where you’re going to starve and die, but grow, bloom, flourish. Maybe you resent everything in the world today because none of it is fucking yours and you have no one to call your own except you- and you don’t love yourself anyway, so fat lot of help that is. And the self pity and bitterness steadily simmers and gains momentum, and you find yourself staring off the side of the building, wondering if today’s the day.

But today is horrible. Today was horrible, which means it can’t be the day. Life cannot fall like this. Today can’t be the day, so let’s sit at the edge and breathe.

Let’s wait for tomorrow.

Five Parts of Her

I-

Those who have known imprisonment, know
Freedom can be found even in a flower

And you wonder why I love rain

-II-

We were not reared in shade, in gardens
This desert has bred
Wild children

-III-

I walk in dreams, where no one sees
Be still; I know where you lie
But you do not know
My lies

-IV-

They trapped her soul in the
Heart of a diamond
She sparkled like a star, and yet
They found flaws in her

-V-

This night sky stretches on like a lost ocean
It seems to me that
I am doomed to drown tonight

Five Parts of Her’
©CM
17.07.2016

What I Did Today

choose

 

 

 

Do you want to know what I did today?

 

I came back home and I cleaned my room. Twice. Because I wanted to cry, and big girls don’t cry. So I cleaned my room.

I removed the mountain of washed clothes that had accumulated in the corner. All the dresses I’d bought in recent times, to wear for you. The stockings and leggings to go with them. The light jackets I’d been wearing on our outdoors dates because I knew you didn’t give two shits about my scars, but I still didn’t want people staring at us in public. It took a while, folding and putting everything away, memories and funny incidents still strung on to each and every of those dresses. But I’m not going to be wearing any of those for any of the reasons I wore them for… best to put them away now.

 

It felt like a funeral, like a burial of every happy color in my life. And I was tempted to cry, but I didn’t. Not even when I packed away my lingerie drawer, full of absurd scraps of lace that I’d only bought at all because you’d mentioned offhandly that you ‘like that shit’. And I knew exactly how much you liked each and every surprise from that drawer. But there’s no need for intimates where intimacy doesn’t exist. So I packed them up and put them away. It’s almost funny how many days we spent wrapped around those bits of cloth. Then again, when the fabric of reality itself changes, what possible strength can silk or satin have?

 

So I put them away, too.

 

And then I packed it all up, twice. Because you’re not gone yet, but you’re going to go very soon. And I have no use for these trappings of fantasies that are already evaporating. There’s so many things that are going to cease to be real for me, and it hurts, it really fucking hurts. Moving my bed to a different corner isn’t going to erase the love and the pain I’ve painted these walls with, and when it’s night and there’s nothing but darkness, those colors will show and I’m going to cry. I’m going to be crying for many, many nights. But I’m still going to have to get up and face a hundred people every day, smiling and laughing and doing whatever normal people do.

 

Because you and I were sitting at a bar today, drinking beer and listening to random music blaring- nothing we haven’t done a thousand times before, but something we probably won’t be doing again. And we were holding hands and Fergie was singing that it’s time to be a big girl now.

 

And big girls don’t cry.

 

 

 

An Ascent Into Madness

 

20141005-153330.jpg

 

Being up before dawn is quite something.

Not sleeping at all, and waiting for a semblance of a new day, quite another.
I’m sitting on the steps that lead into my backyard, lighting a cigarette for the morning, fingers still stained here and there with old blood. My hair’s still wet from the shower, and matches fizzle out, catching stray droplets. Couple of tries and I get it though. Wish I could say the same about falling asleep. Dunno if the insomnia fuels the stress or the stress perpetuates the insomnia. Probably both, and the vicious cycle has my mind turning verbal somersaults.
Not proverbial. There is no wisdom here.
The yard is damp, there’s a promise of rain. The sky’s beginning to show the faintest of gleams shooting into the sky on my right. It’s beautiful enough, I suppose. Not nearly as the tiny ember I hold in my hand. It’s closer to earth. It holds more meaning. I realize that a cigarette can bring you more calm than the promise of a new day. It’s all about perspective.
Or maybe that’s what I lack. My vision’s gotten blurry. It’s an odd sort of focus where the world kind of weaves in and out, the green of the patch of trees blending with the incongruously placed electricity poles. They’re there, and not there. My mind buzzes with a sort of frantic awakening that my lethargic body wishes it could replicate. Even the noxious tin can promising energy sitting next to me cant give me that. Nor can the rancid tasting excuse for yogurt next to it. Tastes like cow spit.
Either way.
Dawn comes rather suddenly. One minute it’s all blue and violet, and the next minute the mysteries of the darkest night are nowhere to be seen. The sky is white. It’s a blank space, a canvas crisscrossed by telephone lines- is this why it’s a new beginning? Could I do what the man said, and paint my will across in clouds? Probably not.
Would be nice to, though.
I can barely see, and yet, I see too much. I know nothing, like that idiot Jon Snow. And I know too much. I don’t want to. I don’t want to feel this vacant buzzing in my ears, of words that form rhymes in couplets and drop off stray into the unknown. I want to gather them, pour them out so that I can refill myself properly, but there’s always some more, always some more. There was an ode to a crack in the floor just now, a series of observations about the movements of ants stealing from the bin, remnants of a three hour long conversation from last night, weighing responsibilities, pressing chores, imminent deadlines. There is no possible space for silence here.
Silence. What a word.
I never did learn the ‘meaning’ of extremes. After days like yesterday, I always realize that I still don’t know how someone with so little value for their own life can revere the keeping of others’. Where did I learn these lessons? My blood on my hands is art. Even the sight of someone else’s blood, is immediately recognized as pain. My pain is fulfilment, to be felt, to be revelled in. Someone else in pain, incites the urge to heal, to help.
Odd sort of double standards, really. Most people take it the other way round, as far as I know.
So young. So full of ideals. So old. So bitter, so inured. And love. The great equalizer, binding the two, bizarrely united halves together. I have very strange dreams to live for.
At least I can see much better now, even with the ashen aftertaste in my mouth. Morning is here properly. There’s one shrub in the far corner quivering away on its own. A collective of jackdaws chockchocking away next door. Maybe I won’t have to go very far to refill my mind. There are stories here, even in this stretch of land I know as well as the map of veins in my hand. And I haven’t even begun to hear them.
But I have begun to see. Morning is here.