From The Quill

"Isn't home supposed to be more than a house? A place where you belong?" "We put your name on the door. What more do you want?" "Aren't the people in it supposed to be your own tribe, Who stands by you no matter what?" "Not when you don't listen to what they say. Obey, rather than have your own mind." "How does it feel to be a stranger in your own home? Unfamiliar with your own people?" "It's your fault you feel that way." "How does it feel knowing the place you thought to be your identity was the source of all the traumas you endure, secretly screaming into the pillow every night?" "Now, don't be so dramatic, women before and after you feel the same!" "You are only another woman. You must be adjusting to the world of men, Ready to be a second-class citizen." "But what if she is not tailor-made for it? What if she wants her own corner in your place?" "A woman wit...

 I sit beside you  Watching you read,  And I miss you terribly. Do I make sense? I miss the time you held my hand  Every time we sat together. Now the cushion between us  Screams silently of bridges  We never cross. We stay together but never indulge.  In meaningful conversations like before. The only words spoken are in need  And it makes me wonder  Am I still in love with you?  Remember the times you  Couldn't get your eyes off me? Now you barely look up from your phone. Remember when an accidental touch. Excited our cores? I don't feel like that anymore. Do habits do away with feelings?  Or comfort do away with efforts?  It shouldn't be this way, right?  When two people are in love? © Suranya

 I prefer to stay in my head  Where you and I are still a thing. The storyline fits every love song  That I saved in our shared playlist. Sometimes we are star-crossed lovers Sometimes childhood friends  Sometimes we meet and part  Never to see each other again. I know your smile.  Your deep brown eyes. I know your favourite food.  And how you react to certain flowers. There's a lock on the door.  Of this world that belongs to your thought The words are my key  To let others into your realm. Yet I must be careful.  They should never know all our secrets. © Suranya

 I place a rose on the tomb of Us,  The petals wither  And the thorns remind me of you  Hurting each other till we last. I burn from within in unfulfilled desire.  Looking for a purpose in the debris of lost hope.  But then comes the wind that puts out the fire  Forcing me to move on.  I resist. I protest. I can't forget. I won't forgive. With each step that I was forced  To drag back into your chessboard I leapt forward twice. I learnt to let go,  I was taught to forgive. I am resilient, fighting till I burn  Raising my voice for things  That only mattered to me;  Only to realise, I was a kid then,  A rebel without a cause  Who was I to fix you? Hope that you treat the next woman better?  By forgiving someone who never apologised. © Suranya

 I can only sleep when the world is awake. I spend my darkness in your realms. I burn the pages I wrote about you  Only to rewrite them every night. Is it a disease or a habit now? I can't really tell. My insomnia grows every single day.  And now I can barely tell reality from dreams. You seem so real, like I can stretch my arms  And touch you. Yet I can't. I long for you yet  I don't want you near me. I fear it will break the illusion of you  That I created around my world. You are perfect in it, the way I want  Like the role play of a character in my story. You are like the forgotten lines  Of the poems I once knew by heart. A familiar face in a stranger's body  You are pictures, memories and places  And a Tombstone of regret  Over the grave of my past. © Suranya

 "The typewriter tap dances  Right in the centre stage  Where the protagonist meets Their fate." The writer pauses  In between spaces,  Pages to be changed  Ink to be replaced Often wondering about The One Greatest Writer of them all. The One whose commas continue life  And periods end chapters good and bad.  Tragedy, comedy, romance and drama  Sometimes thrillers and dark desire  They can write any genre without a care. Are we all protagonists in life? Most aren't in books.  Some are just side characters existing.  Driving others' stories. What if the writer is one of them? Never a protagonist in her own life?  Could something be more nightmarish Than that? © Suranya

 I cry on my pillow with silent screams I turn the music up Hoping it makes your voices fade away. I know they are in my head  As they haunt my solitude each night. Your promises and apologies drown  In the lyrics and enchanting voice  That now engulfs my world. Reality vanishes into clouds. Of words that shape stories. As I pick up my quill Dip it in ink and begin to write,  The paper soaks in the lines. I am not me anymore This story was never mine to begin with. They say you need to be intoxicated To feel above it all. Aloof. Dissociated. But here I am, pushed and shoved  With my back to the wall. Shouting that I can't care less  Afraid that nobody could hear me. You all made me like this.  Pushed me over the edge  All of you, the sweet talkers, promise breakers Who never stuck by when I needed you.  Today, I know no drug can harm me  No habit can compel me.  For Hurt is the most powerful intoxication of all.  And heart...