play, pause, replay

the in-betweens

When I was seventeen, I wanted to drink burgundy from

a broken wine glass.

I dreamed of blood spilling on my lips, a shard of

the untamed past, slicing my skin in

the midsummer air.

I wouldn't drown my sorrow in the merlot

this time; I wouldn't wash my growing hatred

in the burgundy on my lips.

So I dreamed of a cracked land, where the

skies bleed and the windshields cry upon dead gardens.

My face would be disfigured, a part of it melting away in

the moonlight. I wouldn't writhe in pain.

My pink wrists, my bleeding veins, the burning houses.

There ain't no home in my dreamland; rather there's

a shadow of what could've been so.

It screams at the stars and waits for death - a dying dreamland.

*

A drunk woman, a late-night call, another

day spent mourning, a wasted morning,

a bruised forearm, an hour lying on the

cold bathroom floor.

The last time she got wasted like this, she'd almost died.

Her broken bottle spins - life, death, and the numerous in-betweens.

Her wrecked family threw her out, her husband cheated on her,

Atlas kissed her last night and she blurred the line at last.

She plunged the blade deeper, deeper, deep within her flesh until

it made her groan in bliss. She saw her reflection

sinking away in the running water.

The bathtub was filled with red water - so rich, it made her smile.

November flashed before her eyes.

The swell of the scar on her collarbone, the razor-sharp

nails leaking red from her skin, a pocket knife

to draw lines on her legs.

There's peace in pain, the kind that makes her want to live again and again.

There's loss in love - that aches her bones.

But mostly, there's a growing void in

everything she could never live to meet.

*

I don't dream anymore. I used to

when I was happy; when I had my Mum and

my little sister, Paola.

So I let those memories tear my skin into shreds.

I let the merlot-washed blood kill me, so slow

that death can't touch the tip of bliss.

I hear voices from my haunted past.

A loveless mourning, a crying figure, perhaps

a trickle of red paint, another blood-slicked limb. . .

I never learned to love, or lose, or live.

All I did was drink and drown and drown.

- so I lay on the bathroom floor and prayed for death.

* * *

A/N: A huge thank you to everyone who's taken the time to dive into my book and share such lovely comments. Seriously, your words are super encouraging and mean the world to me, especially with how many of you have shown concern for my well-being after reading those darker poems.

I just want to clear something up real quick: while my poetry might explore some deep and triggering themes, most of what I write is fictional. It's all part of the craft and not a direct reflection of my personal life.

Thank you again for all your love and support. You all are amazing!

Affectionately,

Sreeja.