There are these insects buzzing around this ditchwater mind of mine: so full of despondency and a raw stench. Little ramshackle ideas surround it, and the thoughts that live there have grown accustomed to the green miasma of shattered idealism and broken beauty. They’ve regressed, growing paranoid by the day, giving me a distorted mind’s eye view of what’s without, and day after day, I’m sinking in my delusion, feigning strength when I’m tangled up in you, when I’m kissing you at dawn, when I’m held between your thighs, your dew some ephemeral comfort, some transient release, and I know that you love me, but I’m waging war with myself, my angels losing to my demons, slaughtered one by one, and I want to, no, I need to give you more than just the nonchalant now clichéd three words. I need to selflessly shed this scratched skin like a snake, and find something more durable, something that’ll sustain me, but more importantly reach out to you like myriad palms touching your heart, and soothing you, letting you know that this isn’t hypocrisy, but true ardor, just muted by the cries of my inner battlefield. Yesterday when you took me in, and our bodies echoed to the rhythm that writers only try immortalizing, I felt hunger, lust, love and guilt. Guilt because I’m crumbling, praying to imagined crosses, finding no answers, and with bloody tears of anguish, I feel Golgotha nearing, when each self, birthed from violent self-revolutions will tear each other apart, until the strongest, most distasteful, crude, creator of maladies which snipped my naïve charm with a crude pair of scissors, will overwhelm and usurp this weak fighter and I won’t be the man you know anymore. But maybe there’s a miracle and if it’s not you, each second I spent on this wretched planet was never worth it.
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)